“We will try this new remedy,” said one of the consulting physicians to Harry’s father; “it is the only thing that remains to be done, and I confess I have no faith in its efficacy in this case.”
“He rallies again!” said Ruth, clasping her hands.
“The children!” said Harry; “bring me the children.”
“Presently,” said the new physician; “try and swallow this first;” and he raised his head tenderly.
They were brought him. Little Nettie came first,—her dimpled arms and rosy face in strange contrast to the pallid lips she bent, in childish glee, to kiss. Then little Katy, shrinking with a strange awe from the dear papa she loved so much, and sobbing, she scarce knew why, at his whispered words, “Be kind to your mother, Katy.”
Again Harry’s eyes sought Ruth. She was there, but a film—a mist had come between them; he could not see her, though he felt her warm breath.
And now, that powerful frame collected all its remaining energies for the last dread contest with death. So fearful—so terrible was the struggle, that friends stood by, with suppressed breath and averted eyes, while Ruth alone, with a fearful calmness, hour after hour, wiped the death damp from his brow, and the oozing foam from his pallid lips.
“He is gone,” said the old doctor, laying Harry’s hand down upon the coverlid.
“No; he breathes again.”