“Yes, Agnes,” said he, “I will trust him!”
Day by day he grew weaker, and at times his sufferings were intense; but such a wonderful patience and calmness possessed him, and he seemed so to forget self in his thought for others, that Mrs. Wharton said, in speaking of him:
“I never so fully realized the import of the words ‘a new creature.’ Who would think that this could be our impetuous, thoughtless Lewie, of former times.”
“You must make some allowance for the languor of sickness, my dear,” said Mr. Wharton, who of course did not see so much of the invalid as those who had the immediate charge of him.
“Weakness, I grant, would make him less impetuous and violent,” answered his wife, “but would it make him patient, and docile, and considerate, if there were not some radical change in his feelings and temper?”
During the last few days of his life, and when the flickering flame was hourly expected to die out, his uncle saw more of him, and he, too, became convinced of the change in Lewie, and was certain that for him to die would be gam. And at last, with words of prayer upon his lips and a whisper of his sister’s name, he sank away as gently as an infant drops asleep.
“How like he looks,” said old Mammy, with the tears streaming down her withered cheeks, “how like he looks, with the bonny curls lying round his forehead, to what he did the day he lay like death at the Hemlock’s, when he was only two years old.”
Mrs. Wharton’s mind immediately reverted to the scene, and to that young mother’s prayer of agony, “Oh, for his life! his life!” and as she thought over the events of that short life of sin and sorrow, she said within herself, “Oh! who can tell what to choose for his portion! Thou Lord, who knowest the end from the beginning, choose Thou our changes for us, and help us in the darkest hour to say, ‘Thy will be done.’”
And in the quiet spot where the willow bends, and the brook murmurs, by the side of his mother, and near the grave of Rhoda Edwards, rest the remains of Lewie.
It is strange how much a human heart may suffer and yet beat on and regain tranquillity, and even cheerfulness at last. It is a most merciful provision of Providence, that our griefs do not always press upon us as heavily as they do at first, else how could the burden of this life of change and sorrow be borne. But the loved ones are not forgotten when the tear is dried and the smile returns to the cheek; they are remembered, but with less of sadness and gloom in the remembrance; and at length, if we can think of them as happy, it is only a pleasure to recall them to mind.