The hours went on. The old family clock had just struck two, and we were watching and working in an agony of suspense.
I had not left my father’s bedside, till the low, indistinct conversation between the doctor and grandmother, in the next room, fell upon my ear.
“There is life yet,” said he. “I thought once he had ceased to breathe.”
“And you are quite sure he does?” she inquired.
“Yes. I held a small mirror over his face; and the mist that gathered upon it proves there is still faint breathing.”
I shuddered and ran out to them.
“You think he will die!” I cried, seizing grandmother’s hand with desperate energy.
“I cannot tell, dear Gracie. His life, like yours and mine, is in the hands of God. We cannot foresee his purposes. We can only submit to his will.”
Saying this, she returned with the doctor to the sick room, and I was left alone.
The prospect of being deprived of my only surviving parent almost paralyzed me. I looked out of the open window. It was a calm, clear summer night. The moon shone out in all its glory and brilliancy, and the stars twinkled as cheerily as though there was no sorrow, suffering, or death in the world.