“My son—my only son—must die! What will become of me then?”
Sure enough, the doctor is right; and in a little while the fever comes to its crisis, and the poor boy dies, with his head upon his mother’s bosom.
The people come in and try to comfort the bereaved mother; but it is of no use. Her heart is broken; and she wishes she were dead, too.
Some of you know what it is to look your last upon the faces of those you love. Some of you mothers have wept hot tears upon the cold faces of your sons.
Well, they make him ready for burial; and when the time comes, they celebrate the funeral service, and place him on a bier to carry him away to the grave.
What a sad procession!
Just as they come out of the city gates, they see a little company of thirteen dusty-looking travelers, coming up the road.
There is One among them who is tall and far fairer than the sons of men.
Who can He be?
He is moved with compassion when He sees this little funeral procession; and it does not take Him long to find out that this woman who walks next the bier is a poor widow, whose only son she is following in sadness to the grave.