Towards the afternoon he grew worse again, and took to his bed, the yellow head tossing to and fro, the eyes bright and restless, and his face burning. At length he looked up and said to his mother, in the manner of one who forms a difficult resolution: "Send for the parson. Tell him I am sick and want to see him."
It was this summons that the widow Spurlock had delivered on the Sunday afternoon when the parson had quitted the house with such a cry of distress. He had not so much as thought of the boy since the Friday morning previous.
"How is it possible," he exclaimed, as he hurried on—"how is it possible that I could have forgotten him?"
The boy's mother met him outside the house and drew him into an adjoining room, silently, for her tears were falling. He sank into the first chair.
"Is he so ill?" he asked, under his trembling breath.
"I'm afraid he's going to be very ill. And to see him in so much trouble—"
"What is the matter? In God's name, has anything happened to him?"
She turned her face away to hide her grief. "He said he would tell you himself. Oh, if I've been too hard with him! But I did it for the best. I didn't know until the doctor came that he was going to be ill, or I would have waited. Do anything you can to quiet him—anything he should ask you to do," she implored, and pointed towards the door of the room in which the boy lay.
Conscience-stricken and speechless, the parson opened it and entered.