He was absolutely silent after this news, no longer attempting to comfort his wife.
"Angus, God is cruel if for the sake of wanting a little money our boy must die."
"Don't," said the curate—God was so precious to him that these words smote on him even now with a sense of agony—"don't," he repeated, and he raised his hand as though to motion away an evil spirit.
"He is cruel if He lets our boy die for want of money to save him," repeated the mother in her desperation.
"He won't do that, Lottie—He will never do that, there is not the least fear."
"Then how are we to get the money?"
"I don't know, I cannot think to-night. I will go up to Harold now."
He turned and left the room with slow steps. As he mounted the stairs his back was so bent, his face so gray and careworn, that though scarcely forty he looked like an old man.
This was Harold's one precious hour with his father, and the little fellow was sitting up in bed and expecting him.
"Father," he said, noticing the anxious look on his face, which was generally as serene and peaceful as the summer sea, "what is the matter? You are ill; are you going to have the scarlet fever too?"