“When life’s over it will be so pleasant for them to carry us away to heaven! I wish you and I could go together, mother.”
“We shall each go when God pleases, David.”
“Oh yes, I know that.”
Mrs. Hill, remembering this little bit of conversation, word for word, repeated it afterwards to me and others, with how they had sat, and David’s looks. I say this for fear people might think I had invented it.
Hill came in, and they prepared to go to the other house. David, his arms full—for, of course, with things to be carried, they did not go out empty-handed—came suddenly back from the door in going out, flung his load down, and clasped his mother. She bent to kiss him.
“Good night, my dear one! Don’t you and Luke get chattering all night. Go to sleep betimes.”
He burst into tears, clinging to her with sobs. It was as if his heart were breaking.
“Are you afraid to go?” she whispered.
“I must go,” was his sobbing answer.
“Now then, Davvy!” called back Hill’s rough tones. “What the plague are you lagging for?”