“She seemed to be worse, my boy.”
“Mamma, mamma!” cried Charley anxiously, “you don’t mean—Oh, mamma, she isn’t—”
The boy could not say the words, but his eyes spoke his meaning plainly enough. Mrs. Digby’s tears fell for a moment fast and freely; but then they were checked, and she answered steadily:
“We are in God’s hands, dear Charley, and our precious little child is under His care. He may be willing to spare her to us a little longer. We may all pray and even hope; God’s ways are not our ways, and He is very merciful.”
Charley’s face grew pale. He saw by his mother’s looks how little hope she had.
“Mamma!” he cried; “Oh, mamma!”
“Dear Charley,” she said tenderly, “we must all be brave; we may still pray to God to spare our darling, only we must pray first ‘Thy will be done.’”
The boy choked and a lump rose in his throat; then he commanded his voice and asked:
“What does Dr. Howard say?”
“He says that—that—he thinks Winifred cannot get any better.”