“And I can say no more, Ellen. I do pray; I have prayed, that your darling boy’s life may be spared, if it be the will of God, but more than that I cannot say.”
“And what if it be His will to take my darling from me, Ellen?”
“Then, Harriet, I hope you might learn to acquiesce without a murmur, and to say from your heart, ‘It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him good.’”
“No, Ellen, never! I cannot contemplate the bare possibility of losing my boy. If you will not pray as I wish, I will try to pray myself;” and falling on her knees, she prayed for the life of her child. “Take whatever else thou wilt, oh God,” she cried, “but oh, spare me my child.”
“Harriet, this seems to me most horrible impiety,” said Mrs. Wharton, “to ask God to grant your desires, whether agreeable to His will, or not; I should much fear if your request were granted, that it would only be to show you, that you know not what is best for yourself, and for those you love; and that you might some day wish you had left this matter in the hands of God, even if it had been His will to take your darling to Himself.”
When Dr. Rodney came that morning, he found the child in a profound slumber. “This,” said he, “is, I think, the crisis of the disease; on no account let him be disturbed; if he awakes conscious, he will in all human probability recover.”
And they watched him in breathless stillness, Mrs. Wharton on one side of the cradle, and his mother on a low stool beside him, with her sad gaze riveted on his little face, to catch his first waking glance, and to see whether the eye then beamed with intelligence, or not.
Oh, who can imagine the agony, the terrible suspense of such watching, but those who have sat as that poor mother did, over a loved one hovering between life and death. And as Mrs. Wharton sat so silently opposite her, her thoughts were sometimes raised in prayer for her poor misguided sister; and sometimes she sat looking at her as a perfect enigma; with a heart so capable of loving devotedly, and yet so steeled against her own child, and so lovely and winning a little creature as Agnes. It was a puzzle which she had often tried to solve, in vain.
After an hour more of deep slumber, Lewie started and awoke. For a moment his glance rested with a bewildered expression upon his mother’s face; and then, stretching out his little hands, he said, “Mamma!” Mrs. Wharton’s attention was fixed upon the child; but when she turned to the mother, she saw her, white as the snow, falling back upon the floor. The revulsion of feeling was too much for her; she had fainted.
When Mrs. Wharton came home that night, she said, “Agnes, my love, your little brother is better, and, with great care, he may now recover.”