Eva could not persuade herself to despair entirely of the divine mercy; and when every earthly hope had vanished, her loving heart had sweet dreams on which she built new hopes. Good God! it was sad to see that mother dying beneath the very eyes of her son—of a son who could not comprehend her situation, but smiled when she embraced him.
“He will not regret me,” she said, “he will not weep for me, perhaps not even remember me.” And she sat motionless, in mute contemplation of her child, her hand then sometimes seeking mine. “You love him, my friend?” she murmured.
And I told her that I would never leave him till he had better friends than myself.
God in heaven, and the poor village doctor, were the only protectors to whom she confided her son.
Truth is mighty! this widowed being, disinherited, dying by the side of a child who could not even appreciate her love, felt not yet that despair which makes men die blaspheming. No, an invisible friend was near her, whom she seemed to depend on, and would often listen to holy words that she alone could hear.
One morning she sent for me early; she was unable to leave her bed, and with her shrunken hand she pointed to a sheet of paper, on which some lines were traced.
“Doctor, my friend,” she said, in her sweetest tone, “I had not the strength to go on, will you finish the letter?”
I took it up, and read as follows—
“My Lord,—This is the last time I shall ever write to you. Whilst health is restored to your old age, I am suffering and dying. I leave your grandson, William Kysington, without a protector. My lord, this letter is written to remind you of him, and I ask for him rather a place in your affections, than your fortune. Throughout his life he has understood but one thing—his mother’s love; and he must now be deprived of this forever! Cherish him, my lord; he only comprehends affection.”
She had not been able to finish; I added,