“If there is hope, there is certainty. If the Lord ‘is not mocked,’ neither does he mock his children. I have prayed, oh! how I have prayed! And the answer is, there is hope! So there is certainty!” exclaimed David Lindsay, as he dropped on his knees before the prostrate form that lay wound in the blanket on the mattress.
“You know what to do, David. Lay your hand between her shoulders and continue to move her gently to and fro, if you wish to save her life. When I get the bed ready we will lay her in it,” said the old woman, as she spread more blankets to heat before the fire.
When they were ready she put one over the bottom sheet in the bed, and called her grandson to lift the precious burden just as it was and lay it there.
When he had obeyed her, she spread another warm blanket over the form, which now began to quiver slightly as from pain.
“She lives! Oh, thank Heaven, she does live!” cried David.
“Easy, lad! Easy! There is more hope, but no certainty yet. I could not feel any pulse, as I held her wrist just now,” said Dame Lindsay, cautiously.
In mad haste, David thrust his hand amid the wrappings and found and felt the delicate wrist.
“It beats! It beats! Her pulse does beat! I can scarcely feel it, it is so small—but it beats!” he cried.
“I hope it may be so,” said the dame, who had taken a little brandy from a small bottle that she kept for emergencies and put it into a mug with some boiling water, sugar and spice.
When the highly stimulating cordial was ready, she brought it to the bedside and looked at the face of the girl.