"Ah, do not be so distressed; it is not unendurable," he hastened to say with a loving, tender look and an effort to smile in the midst of his agony. "And He, He is with me; the Lord my Saviour! 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' and the sense of His love is very sweet, never so sweet before."
"Thank God that it is so! Ah, He is faithful to his promises!" she said.
Then kneeling by his side she repeated one sweet and precious promise after another, the blessed words and loved tones seeming to have a greater power to soothe and relieve than anything else.
The other physicians arrived, examined, consulted, used such remedies as were known to them; everything was done that science and human skill could do, but without avail; they could give temporary relief by the use of opiates and anæsthetics, but were powerless to remove the disease which was fast hurrying its victim to the grave.
Both Mr. Travilla and Elsie desired to know the truth, and it was not concealed from them. On Mr. Dinsmore devolved the sad task of imparting it.
It was in the afternoon of the second day. The doctors had held a final consultation and communicated their verdict to him. Moved to his very heart's core at the thought of parting with his lifelong bosom friend, and more for the far sorer bereavement awaiting his almost idolized child, he waited a little to recover his composure, then entered the sick-room and drew silently near the bed.
Elsie sat close at her husband's side, one hand clasped in his, while with the other she gently fanned him or wiped the death damp from his brow. Did she know it was that? Her face was colorless, but quite calm.
Mr. Travilla was at that moment entirely conscious, and his eyes were gazing full into hers with an expression of unutterable love and the tenderest compassion.
At length they turned from her face for an instant and were uplifted to that of her father, as he stood close beside her, regarding them both with features working with emotion.
The dying man understood its cause. "Is it so, Dinsmore?" he said feebly, but with perfect composure. "Elsie, little wife," and he drew her to him, both tone and gesture full of exceeding tenderness. "O love, darling, precious one, must we part? I go to the glory and bliss of heaven, but you—" His voice broke.