“But, Alfred, dear, any pain or trial sent by God, if we only bear it with patience and resignation, will be showing the same love as if we died for Him.”
“Why, mother!” he exclaimed, forgetting, in his surprise, the great weakness that a moment before had gathered around his heart; “your words seem so strange, I will not say irreverent—but, mother, to compare our trials to martyrdom seems—seems so presumptuous.”[38]
8. Pausing an instant in her sewing, she fixed a steadfast gaze upon him; perceiving the conversation was not wearying him, she said:
“Alfred, I have often wished in this sickness to tell you my thoughts on this subject, for it seems they were suggested by my good angel, to strengthen and comfort me. You have been so weak, that I have not dared to dwell on any subject, or use more words than were absolutely necessary. But now I see you are able to hear me, and I will speak.”
9. “Yes, do, mother, do tell me something that will comfort me too; for, oh, how sad, how stricken I feel!” His large eyes looked haggard and wild. The little boy on the bench moved nearer, and, bending over with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his tiny palms, fixed his blue eyes wonderingly upon her, listening intently to what she was about to say. Newly threading her needle, she commenced;
“Alfred, a martyr suffers death through love of God, and rather than consent to an act displeasing to Him; in other words, rather than do any thing that would offend Him.”
“Yes, mother, but—”
“Wait, my child, wait. If now, through the same love of God, and through fear of offending Him, we suffer our trials and afflictions with patience and resignation, is it not the same spirit which leads one to martyrdom? is it not, my child, the same?”
10. He paused a moment before replying, and then slowly said: “In the way in which you present it to my view, it really does seem so, mother; but—” placing his hand upon his heart, “I wish I could make it seem so here.” He raised himself on his elbow and gazed round the desolate room; a wintry smile lit up his wan countenance.
“Oh, mother,” he bitterly exclaimed, “to talk of glorious martyrdom and joyous heaven in this wretched, wretched home of poverty!”