Then, as she could not for very anguish reply to his eager question, his noble courage gave way, and, throwing himself upon his pillow, he uttered a piercing cry of untold despair.
The poor mother knelt beside him with arms closely folding him to her heart, unable to soothe, save with loving caresses, her child's unutterable anguish.
'Nay, Davie, my man,' cried the old miner, wiping his eyes with the back of his rough hand, 'ye did no greet when death a'most stared us in the face; why do ye sorrow now, my brave lad?'
'Oh, but then I should have been with God! Now'—and his sobs redoubled—'I shall never see mother's dear face again, nor yours, Master Morgan; and for me my Evening Primrose will never open its buds again. And oh, if I am blind, I can never more be mother's little bread-winner.'
The parable is told!
Little Davie eventually recovered his sight, thanks to the generous kindness of the manager, who spared no means to procure the best surgical aid for the poor little lad; and in the years that quickly followed, he became the stay and comfort of his widowed mother, retaining ever his filial affection for her, and cherishing fond recollections of those early days when his only treasures were her love and his Evening Primrose.
