“Well—that’s well. You must not let her do anything to weary herself. I don’t like the stove-heat for her. You should let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. When the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and go out, and I will send her something. My dear, you have no occasion for despondency. The chances are all in her favour.”
He went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and down the room for a little, he came close to Graeme.
“And if it were not so, my child, you are a Christian. If the possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought it to be deplored?”
A strong shudder passed over Graeme. The doctor paused, not able to withstand the pain in her face.
“Nay, my child—if you could keep her here and assure to her all that the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the ‘rest that remaineth?’ For her it would be far better to go, and for you—when your time comes to lie down and die—would it sooth you then to know that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?”
Graeme’s face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast. Her friend did not seek to check them.
“I know the first thought is terrible. But, child! the grave is a safe place in which to keep our treasures. Mine are nearly all there. I would not have it otherwise—and they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. You will be glad for yourself by and by. You should be glad for your sister now.”
“If I were sure—if I were quite sure,” murmured Graeme through her weeping.
“Sure that she is going home?” said the doctor, stooping low to whisper the words. “I think you may be sure—as sure as one can be in such a case! It is a great mystery. Your father will know best. God is good. Pray for her.”
“My father! He does not even think of danger.” Graeme clasped her hands with a quick despairing motion.