So that summer Sabbath passed away, and Monday came and went, and Tuesday followed in the track, and Wednesday dawned, and still Benny's life trembled in the balance. The doctor said there was no perceptible increase of strength, while the pulse, if anything, was weaker. Hence, without some great change, he thought the boy would not live many hours longer.
Outside the birds twittered in the trees, and the songs of the haymakers floated on the still summer air; but within, in a darkened room, little Benny to all appearance lay dying. He had reached the border land, and was standing on the river's brink. On the other side of the stream was the everlasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hunger and weariness and pain could never come. Why did he linger, when he wanted so much to cross and be at rest for ever?
He had no fear, and to the onlookers it seemed easy dying. No sigh or moan escaped his lips; he lay as still as the dead.
The day waned at length and darkened into night, and Mrs. Fisher and one of the servants remained up to watch by the little invalid. It was about midnight when they observed a change come over him. The brow contracted as if in pain, the wasted fingers plucked at the clothes, and the breathing became heavy and irregular.
Mrs. Fisher ran to her husband's room and summoned him at once to Benny's bedside. John Fisher was a kind man, and needed no second bidding. With gentle hand he wiped away the big drops that were gathering on the little sufferer's brow; then turning to his wife, he said,
"Do you think you had better stay, love? I think he is dying."
"No, no!" she said, "I cannot see him die." Then, after a pause, she sobbed, "Let me know when it is over, John," and hurried from the room.