"What is the matter?" asked Amity, in a half whisper. "Is Johnny worse?"
"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."
Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed, supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed, and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying. Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.
Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.
"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for you several times."
As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box which she held in her hand began to play.
"What is that?" asked Johnny, in a whisper, but clearly and distinctly.
"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny took it in his hand and held it up to his face.
"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I was cross yesterday—I am sorry."
"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."