Locking her door she went down on her knees. Not a tear came to her eyes, not a word to her lips. There was an inward groan, expressing itself in some voiceless manner after this fashion,—
"My God, my God, must I go through the fiery furnace?" Then smoothing her hair, and forcing a smile back to her lips, she went back to her little son.
All that afternoon she sat with him, singing to him, telling him stories, playing with him. In the evening, however, she sought an opportunity to speak to her husband alone.
"Angus, you know how nearly we lost our boy a week ago?"
The curate paused, and looked at her earnestly, surprised at her look and manner.
"Yes, my dearest," he said. "But God was merciful."
"Oh! Angus," she said; and now relief came to her, for as she spoke she began to weep. "You are good, you are brave, you could have let him go. But for me—for me—it would have killed me. I should have died or gone mad!"
"Lottie dear—my darling, you are over-strung. The trial, the fiery trial, was not sent. Why dwell on what our loving Father has averted?"
"Oh, Angus! but has He—has He," then choking with pent-up emotion, she told what the doctor had said to-day, how necessary the expensive change was for the little life. "And we have no money," she said in conclusion, "our purse is very nearly empty."
"Very nearly empty indeed," answered Angus Home.