“Gwladys.”
“Yes, dear Gwen.”
“Have they buried the baby yet?”
“Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he was buried last Saturday.”
“Eh! dear, dear, I’d like to have seen his blessed little face first, but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain’t the Lord good to the little ’uns?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Dear, my maid, and h’all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know. Dear, dear, haven’t I bin lying here for days and learnin’ h’all about it. Seems to me I never knew what the Lord Jesus Christ was like before. Haven’t He that baby in His arms now; haven’t He put sight into his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven’t He bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I’ll tell you, Gwladys,” raising herself in bed, “I’ll tell you what the Lord is—tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to the sinners, and the Saviour of them that’s appointed to die; and if that’s not a God for a time of trouble, I don’t know where you’ll find a God.”
Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my hand with energy.
“And, my maid,” she continued, in an exhausted whisper, “I’ve dreamed that dream again.”
“Oh! Gwen—what?”