The day was dark and gloomy. Incessant weeping and fasting had brought on one of Ruth’s most violent attacks of nervous headache. Ah! where was the hand which had so lately charmed that pain away? where was the form that, with uplifted finger and tiptoe tread, hushed the slightest sound, excluded the torturing light, changed the heated pillow, and bathed the aching temples? Poor Ruth! nature had been tasked its utmost with sad memories and weary vigils, and she sank fainting to the floor.
Well might the frightened children huddle breathless in the farther corner. The coffin, the shroud, and the grave, were all too fresh in their childish memory. Well might the tearful prayer go up to the only Friend they knew,—“Please God, don’t take away our mamma, too.”
Ruth heard it not; well had she never woke, but the bitter cup was not yet drained.
“Good morning, Ruth,” said her father, (a few hours after,) frowning slightly as Ruth’s pale face, and the swollen eyes of her children, met his view. “Sick?”
“One of my bad headaches,” replied Ruth, with a quivering lip.
“Well, that comes of excitement; you shouldn’t get excited. I never allow myself to worry about what can’t be helped; this is the hand of God, and you ought to see it. I came to bring you good news. The doctor has very generously offered to take both your children and support them. It will be a great burden off your hands; all he asks in return is, that he shall have the entire control of them, and that you keep away. It is a great thing, Ruth, and what I didn’t expect of the doctor, knowing his avaricious habits. Now you’ll have something pleasant to think about, getting their things ready to go; the sooner you do it the better. How soon, think?”
“I can never part with my children,” replied Ruth, in a voice which, though low, was perfectly clear and distinct.
“Perfect madness,” said her father, rising and pacing the floor; “they will have a good home, enough to eat, drink, and wear, and be taught—”