"Never mind, Wikkey, lie still," said Reginald, "you are too tired for any reading to-night. I will tell you one verse—a beautiful one—for you and Lawrence to talk about some day," and laying his hand on the boy's head he repeated, in low, gentle tones—"Thine eye shall see the King in His beauty."
After he was gone, Wikkey lay very still, with his eyes fixed intently on the fire. Lawrence dreaded what his next question might be, and at last it came.
"What does it mean—See the King?"
"It means that we shall all see Him some day, Wikkey, when—when—we die. It will be beautiful to see the King, won't it?"
"Yes," said the child, dreamily. "I'd like to see Him. I know as I'm going to die; but will it be soon? Oh, Lawrence! must it be directly?" and as he clung convulsively to him, the young man felt the little heart beating wildly.
"Wikkey—little lad—dear little lad—don't be frightened," he said, stroking the boy's head; "don't be frightened;" but still the eyes questioned him with agonized eagerness, and he knew he must answer, but his voice was very husky, and he felt the task a hard one.
"I'll tell you, Wikkey. I think the King loves you so much that He wants you to come to Him, and not to be ill any more, nor have any more bad pain or coughing. That would be nice, wouldn't it?—never to feel ill any more, and to see the King."
"Yes," Wikkey said, with a long sigh, "it would be ever so nice; but, oh! I don't want for to leave you, Lawrence—won't you come, too?"
"Some day, please God; but that must be as the King likes—perhaps He will not want me to come yet. I must try to do anything He wants me to do here first."
"Should you like to come now, Lawrence?"