I.
Thorwald’s mother was very ill. The fever burned and throbbed in her veins; she lay, all day long and all night long, with her eyes wide open, and could not sleep. The doctor sat at her bedside and looked at her through his spectacles; but she grew worse instead of better.
“Unless she can sleep a sound, natural sleep,” he said, “there is no hope for her, I fear.”
It was to Thorwald’s father that he said this, but Thorwald heard what he said. The little boy, with his dog Hector, was sitting mournfully upon the great wolfskin outside his mother’s door.
“Is my mamma very ill?” he asked the doctor, but the tears choked his voice, and he hid his face in the hair of Hector’s shaggy neck.
“Yes, child,” answered the doctor; “very ill.”
“And will God take my mamma away from me?” he faltered, extricating himself from Hector’s embrace, and trying hard to steady his voice and look brave.
“I am afraid He will, my child,” said the doctor, gravely.
“But could I not do something for her, doctor?”