“No; I can never recover. I have a fatal disease.”
“Shall I ask your mother to come to you?”
“No; she cannot come. She is too poor, and she can’t leave the younger children; but she is praying for me.”
“Would you like to have me to pray for you?”
“Yes, miss, if you will.”
Lizzie B—— took one of his thin, cold hands in her own and knelt beside his cot, and offered up one of those low, sweet, sympathetic prayers that come from the heart and ascend straight to the throne of mercy.
When she arose, every man who could leave his bed was standing about the cot, and many were wiping away the tears they could not restrain.
“Would you like to have me sing something?” she questioned, looking kindly into their faces.
“Oh! do—please do,” they all urged; and she sang one of the sweet songs of the gospel that she could sing so well.
Of course they were all delighted, and begged that she would come again.