The wrestle with the glove ceased and a kindly hand rested on Philip's shoulder.
"No," came the quiet answer. "May God help you, she would not have lived."
"God does not help anybody," was the amazing retort.
The doctor was shocked, visibly so.
"That is a foolish and wicked statement," he said, sternly. "Do not let your mother hear such awful words. She has lived and will die a true Christian. I have never met a woman of greater natural charm and real piety. She has suffered so much that she merits the life eternal. It is a reward, not a punishment. Cast away these terrible thoughts; go, rather, and kneel by her side in prayer."
For an instant the great brown eyes blazed fiercely at him.
"Am I to pray that my mother shall be taken from me?"
"Even that, if it be God's will."
The gleam of passion yielded to utter helplessness. The boy again brought forth his tiny store of money.
"Surely," he said, "I can buy some small amount of wine. In the shops they sell things in tins that make chicken broth, don't they? I have a fire and a kettle. Would you mind telling me——"