“The hard part is to come, dear. We are glad now to see him out of his pain—so comfortable as he looks at this moment. The hard part will be not to hear his little voice any more—never ... But we must not think of that now. I hope, Mildred, that you are not sorry that George is dead. I am not, when I think that he may be with father and mother already.”
“Already?”
“Yes—if they are dead. Perhaps they have been pitying poor baby all the time he has been ill, crying and moaning so sadly; and now he may be with them, quite happy, and full of joy to meet them again.”
“Then they may be seeing us now.”
“Yes; they will not forget us, even the first moment that George’s little spirit is with them. Do not let them see us sad, Mildred. Let them see that we are glad that they should have George, when we could do nothing for him.”
“But we shall miss him so when ... Oliver! He must be buried!”
“Yes. When that is done, we shall miss him sadly. We must expect that. But we must bear it.”
“If we die here,” said Mildred, “it will be easy to do without, him for such a little while. But if we ever get away, if we grow up to be as old as father and mother, what shall we do, all those years, without once hearing Geordie laugh, or having him to wake us in the morning? What long things people’s lives are! It will seem as if ours would never be done, if we have to wait all that time to see Geordie again.”
“I wish we were dead!” sighed Oliver. “I am sure, so do I. And dying is so very easy!”
“The pastor always said there was nothing to be afraid of,” said Oliver—“I mean, for innocent people. And Geordie was so innocent, he was fit to go directly to God.”