At first this made me feel afraid, but then I thought that I need not be afraid of God—of Him who is kinder than any one in the world! The baby coughed painfully and I lifted him up again.
Everything was so queer, so wonderfully queer! First had we four been racing about, playing pranks and thinking only of fun all the afternoon—perhaps it was wrong to play such mischievous pranks—and now here was I alone taking care of a little baby I had never known anything about;—a little baby that God or His angels might soon come for and take away. I had not the least bit of fear now. I only felt as if I were in church,—it was so solemn and so still. In a little while, this poor baby might be in Heaven,—in that beautiful place flooded with glorious light,—with God. And I, just a little girl down here on earth, was I to be allowed to sit beside the baby until the angels came for him?
I looked around the bare, gloomy room. It might be that the angels who were to take away Mother Brita's grandchild were already here. Oh, how good it would be for the poor little baby who coughed so dreadfully!
The clock had struck for half-past seven, for eight o'clock, and half-past eight, and there was just a small bit left of the candle. The sick baby had quieted down at last, and now lay very still.
There came a rattling at the door; some one fumbled at the latch and I stared through the gloom with straining eyes, making up my mind not to be afraid. The door opened slowly a little way, and Ingeborg, our cook, put her round face into the opening.
"Well, have I found you at last? And is it here you are? I was to tell you to betake yourself home. Your mother and father have been worrying themselves to pieces about you, and——"
"Hush, Ingeborg! Be still. He is so sick, so very sick."
Ingeborg came over to the cradle and bent down. Then she hurriedly brought the bit of candle to the cradle.
"Oh, he is dead," she said slowly. "Poor little thing! He is dead,—poor little chap!"
"Oh no, Ingeborg, no!" I sobbed. "Is he dead? For I lifted him up every single time he coughed. Oh, it is beautiful that he is dead, he suffered so, and yet,—oh, it seems sad, too!"