Mr. Peterkin's treasure, his only son, was wasting slowly, inch by inch, before his eyes—dying with slow and silent certainty. The virus was in his blood, and no human aid could check its strides. The father looked on in speechless dread. He saw the insidious marks of the incurable malady. He read its ravages upon the broad white brow of his son, where the pulsing veins lay like tightly-drawn cords; and on the hueless lip, that was shrivelled like an autumn leaf; in the dilated pupil of that prophet-like eye; in the fiery spot that blazed upon each hollow cheek; and in the short, disturbed breathing that seemed to come from a brazen tube; in all these he traced the omens of that stealthy disease that robs us, like a thief in the night-time, of our richest treasures.
"Well, my boy," began Mr. Peterkin, "you must prepare to start in the course of a few days."
"I am ready to leave at any moment, father; and, if we do not start very soon, I am thinking you will have to consign me to the earth, rather than send me on a voyage pleasure-hunting."
A bright smile, though mournful as twilight's shadows, flitted over the pale face of young master as he said this.
"Why, Johnny, you are better this evening," said Miss Bradly, as she entered the room, rushed up to him, and began patting him affectionately on either cheek.
"Yes, I am better, good Miss Emily; but still feeble, oh so feeble! My spirits are better, but the restless fire that burns eternally here will give me no rest," and he placed his hand over his breast.
"Yes, but you must quench that fire."
"Where is the draught clear and pure enough to quench a flame so consuming?"
"The dew of divine grace can do it."
"Yes, but it descends not upon my dried and burnt spirit."