"No, dear," he answered, pressing her to his heart.
"But if it should come."
"Well—I'd take my little girl and mother and Margaret——"
"And what would you do?" as he made a long pause.
"I'd beg to be taken into heaven. And we would all be together. I think God would be good to us."
"And the boys."
"Yes, the boys." He wondered within himself if they were all fit for heaven. But he was quite sure the little girl was.
There was a very great excitement. For months there had been meetings of exhortation and prophesying, and appeals to conscience, to terror, to the desire of being saved from impending destruction. Last winter there had been revivals everywhere, yet during the summer thoughtful people had questioned whether the moral tone of the community had been any higher. There were heroic souls, that always rise to the surface in times of spiritual agitation. There were others moved by any excitement, who seized on this with a kind of ungovernable rapture.
No one spoke of it in Sunday-school. Hanny brought home "Little Blind Lucy," and was so lost in its perusal that she hardly wanted to leave off for half an hour with Joe. But her mother let her look over to see whether Lucy really did have her eyesight restored. She was so sleepy that when she had said her little prayer she felt quite sure that God would take care of her and the beautiful world He had made. It would be cruel to burn it all up.
But the children went to school on Monday. Martha washed as usual. She did think it would be a waste of labor and strength if the world came to an end, though she was sure clean clothes would burn up quicker, and if it had to be, one might as well have it over as soon as possible.