“Don’t you know that I am going to die?”
“No.”
“Then why have you been grieving since we left Dr. Martin’s? And why do you grieve at all for me? I am not your child.”
The words, the scene altogether, overcame her. She knelt down by the sofa, and her tears burst forth freely. “There! You see!” cried William.
“Oh, William, I—I had a little boy of my own, and when I look at you, I think of him, and that is why I cry.”
“I know. You have told us of him before. His name was William, too.”
She leaned over him, her breath mingling with his; she took his little hand in hers; “William, do you know that those whom God loves best He takes first? Were you to die, you would go to Heaven, leaving all the cares and sorrows of the world behind you. It would have been happier for many of us had we died in infancy.”
“Would it have been happier for you?”
“Yes,” she faintly said. “I have had more than my share of sorrow. Sometimes I think that I cannot support it.”
“Is it not past, then? Do you have sorrow now?”