XI.
REPENTANCE.
THERE might have been some danger that Mamie would feel herself too much of a heroine, and forget that all this had been brought about by her own sad disobedience and naughtiness, but for the trouble which followed.
Strange to say, neither of the children suffered much from the exposure and excitement of the evening; and, beyond a little paleness and languor, seemed as well as usual the next day.
But it was far different with their mother. Not very strong at any time, the agony and suspense about her little ones had proved too much for her, and she was very ill; so ill that Mr. Stone was telegraphed for, and for some hours it was believed she could not live. She was quite wild, too; and, though she called and pleaded incessantly for her children, she did not know them when they were brought to her, but thrust them away from her in a way that frightened little Lulu, and quite broke poor repentant Mamie's heart. Oh! was her tender, indulgent mother going to leave her? Would she never know her, never speak to her again, never tell her she forgave all her disobedient, naughty ways, all her disrespect and pettishness?
She sat all day, just outside of her mamma's room, listening to every sound from within, crying bitterly, but silently, and utterly refusing to be comforted or coaxed away.
But at night there was a little change for the better; Mrs. Stone fell into a quiet sleep, and the doctor said he had hope for her now.