For a moment Katy was silent; then, as a new idea took possession of her mind, she sprang to Morris’s side and seizing his arm, demanded, “Can an unbaptized child be saved?”
“We nowhere read that baptism is a saving ordinance,” was Morris’s answer; while Katy continued, “but do you believe they will be saved?”
“Yes, I do,” was the decided response, which, however, did not ease Katy’s mind, and she moaned on, “A child of heathen parents may, but I knew better. I knew it was my duty to give the child to God, and for a foolish fancy withheld the gift until it is too late, and God will take it without the mark upon its forehead, the water on its brow. Oh, baby, baby, if she should be lost—no name, no mark, no baptismal sign.”
“Not water, but the blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin,” Morris said, “and as sure as he died so sure this little one is safe. Besides, there may be time for the baptism yet—that is, to-morrow. Baby will not die to-night, and if you like, it still shall have a name.”
Eagerly Katy seized upon that idea, thinking more of the sign, the water, than the name, which scarcely occupied her thoughts at all. It did not matter what the child was called, so that it became one of the little ones in glory, and with a calmer, quieter demeanor than she had shown that day, she saw Morris depart at a late hour; and then turning to the child which Uncle Ephraim was holding, kissed it lovingly, whispering as she did so, “Baby shall be baptized—baby shall have the sign.”
CHAPTER XXX.
LITTLE GENEVRA.
Morris had telegraphed to New York, receiving in reply that Wilford was hourly expected home, and would at once hasten on to Silverton. The clergyman, Mr. Kelly, had also been seen, but owing to a funeral which would take him out of town, he could not be at the farm-house until five in the afternoon, when, if the child still lived, he would be glad to officiate as requested. All this Morris had communicated to Katy, who listened in a kind of stupor, gasping for breath, when she heard that Wilford would soon be there, and moaning “that will be too late,” when told that the baptism could not take place till night. Then kneeling by the crib where the child was lying, she fastened her great, sad blue eyes upon the pallid face with an earnestness as if thus she would hold till nightfall the life flickering so faintly and seeming so nearly finished. The wailings had ceased, and they no longer carried it in their arms, but had placed it in its crib, where it lay perfectly still, save as its eyes occasionally unclosed and turned wistfully towards the cups, where it knew was something which quenched its raging thirst. Once indeed, as the hours crept on to noon and Katy bent over it so that her curls swept its face, it seemed to know her, and the little wasted hand was uplifted and rested on her cheek with the same caressing motion it had been wont to use in health. Then hope whispered that it might live, and with a great cry of joy Katy sobbed, “She knows me, Morris—mother, see; she knows me. Maybe she will live!”
But the dull stupor which succeeded swept all hope away, and again Katy resumed her post, watching first her dying child, and then the long hands of the clock which crept on so slowly, pointing to only two when she thought it must be five. Would that hour never come, or coming, would it find baby there? None could answer that last question—they could only wait and pray; and as they waited the warm September sun neared the western sky till its yellow beams came stealing through the window and across the floor to where Katy sat watching its onward progress, and looking sometimes out upon the hills where the purplish autumnal haze was lying just as she once loved to see it. But she did not heed it now, nor care how bright the day with the flitting shadows dancing on the grass, the tall flowers growing by the door, and old Whitey standing by the gate, his head stretched towards the house in a kind of dreamy, listening attitude, as if he, too, knew of the great sorrow hastening on so fast. The others saw all this, and it made their hearts ache more as they thought of the beautiful little child going from their midst when they wished so much to keep her. Katy had only one idea, and that was of the child, growing very restless now, and throwing up its arms as if in pain. It was striking five, and with each stroke the dying baby moaned, while Katy strained her ear to catch the sound of horses’ hoofs hurrying up the road. The clergyman had come and the inmates of the house gathered round in silence, while he made ready to receive the child into Christ’s flock.
Mrs. Lennox had questioned Helen about the name, and Helen had answered, “Katy knows, I presume. It does not matter,” but no one had spoken directly to Katy, who had scarcely given it a thought, caring more for the rite she had deferred so long.
“He must hasten,” she said to Morris, her eyes fixed upon the panting child she had lifted to her own lap, and thus adjured the clergyman failed to make the usual inquiry concerning the name he was to give.