'Hush, my son, we must not grieve a departing spirit. I was wrong. His will be done even in this. He has given, and He must take away; be silent while I bless my child again, my child whom I am giving back to Him and to her mother,' but as he lifted up his hands the same feeble articulation smote on their ear.
'Cardie wants me—poor Cardie—poor papa—not my will.'
Did Mildred really catch those words, struggling like broken breaths?—was it the cold sweat of the death-damp that gathered on the clammy brow?—were the fingers growing cold and nerveless on which Richard's hot lips were pressed?—were those dark eyes closing to earth for ever?
'Mildred—Richard—what is this?'
'"Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!" exclaimed the disciples.'
'Hush; thank God, this is sleep, natural sleep,—the crisis is passed, we shall save her yet,' and Dr. Heriot, who had just entered, beckoned the father and brother gently from the room.
CHAPTER XVI
COMING BACK
'If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humble I should be,
More wise, more strengthened for the strife
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow,
But, Lord! whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!'—Anne Brontë.