But now he was dying, he was leaving her forever, and as she thought of the long dark days when she should look for him in vain, she staggered beneath the heavy blow, and in tones as heart-broken as those which had fallen from Lina Hasting's lips, she prayed "If it be possible let this cup pass from me," adding, "Not my will, oh God, but thine be done."
"I will do all things well," seemed whispered in her ear, and thus comforted she nerved herself to meet the worst. All the day she watched by her child, chafing his little hands, smoothing his scanty pillow beneath his head, bathing his burning forehead, and forcing down her bitter tears when in his disturbed sleep he would beg of his father to "bring him an orange—a nice yellow orange—he was so dry."
Alas, that father was where the song of the inebriate rose high on the summer air, and he heard not the pleadings of his son. 'Twas a dreary, desolate room where Willie Parkman lay, and when the sun went down and the night shadows fell, it seemed darker, drearier still. On the rude table by the window a candle dimly burned, but as the hours sped on it flickered awhile in its socket, then for an instant flashed up, illuminating the strangely beautiful face of the sleeping boy, and went out.
An hour later, and Willie awoke. Feeling for his mother's hand, he said; "Tell me true, do drunkards go to heaven?"
"There is for them no promise," was the wretched mother's answer.
"Then I shall never see pa again. Tell him good-by, good-by forever."
The next time he spoke it was to ask his mother to come near to him, that he might see her face once more. She did so, bending low and stifling her own great agony, lest it should add one pang to his dying hour.
"I cannot see you," he whispered, "it is so dark—so dark."
Oh, what would not that mother have given then for one of the lights which gleamed from the windows of the stately mansion where Eddie Hastings was watched by careful attendants. But it could not be and when at last the silvery moon-beams came struggling through the open window and fell upon the white brow of the little boy, they did not rouse him, for a far more glorious light had dawned upon his immortal vision—even the light of the Everlasting.
In her tasteful boudoir sat Lina Hastings, and at her side, on a silken lounge, lay Eddie, calmly sleeping, The crisis was past—she knew he would live, and her cup of happiness was full. Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by the sound of a tolling bell. 'Twas the same which, but for God's mercy, would at that moment, perhaps, have tolled for her boy, and Lina involuntarily shuddered as she listened to the strokes, which, at first were far between. Then they came faster, and as Lina counted five she said aloud, "'Twas a child but two years older than Eddie."