“How so?”
“One of our lads, a dear boy of about eight years of age, is dying, I fear,” returned Adams, sadly.
“I’m sorry to hear it, and still more sorry that I have no doctor in my ship,” said Folger, “but I have a smatterin’ of doctors’ work myself. Let me see him.”
Adams led the way to the hut where poor James Young lay, tenderly nursed by Mary Christian. The boy was lying on his bed as they entered, gazing wistfully out at the little window which opened from the side of it like the port-lights or bull’s-eyes of a ship’s berth. His young nurse sat beside him with the Bounty Bible open on her knees. She shut it and rose as the strangers entered.
The poor invalid was too weak to take much interest in them. He was extremely thin, and breathed with great difficulty. Nevertheless his face flushed, and a gleam of surprise shot from his eyes as he turned languidly towards the Captain.
“My poor boy,” said Folger, taking his hand and gently feeling his pulse, “do you suffer much?”
“Yes,—very much,” said little James, with a sickly smile.
“Can you rest at all?” asked the Captain.
“I am—always—resting,” he replied, with a pause between each word; “resting—on Jesus.”
The Captain was evidently surprised by the answer.