There was the usual exchange of good wishes and little keep-sakes, on New Year’s morning, but the day was not otherwise distinguished as a festival, and the schools kept, and business went on, as on other days. As the family were seated at the breakfast table, a light rap upon the door was heard, and on answering the call, Jessie Hapley, pale and agitated, was found upon the steps.
“Mrs. Page,” she said, as soon as that lady appeared, “mother wants to know if you will come right over—she is afraid Benny is dying;” and the poor girl burst into tears as she delivered the message.
“Benny dying!” exclaimed Mrs. Page, “why, I had no idea he was so sick as that—how long has he been so?”
“He grew worse very fast last night,” replied Jessie. “Henry has gone for the doctor, and mother thought perhaps you could tell what to do, till he comes.”
“Yes, I will go over immediately,” replied Mrs. Page, and she went for her bonnet and shawl, and a minute after started by the shortest cut across the fields for the house of sorrow.
Marcus would gladly have accompanied his mother, but for fear that his presence at such a time might be regarded an intrusion. Benny was one of a class of little boys which Marcus had instructed in the Sabbath school for some two years. Partly from the gentle, winning disposition of the child, and partly on account of the unfavorable influences to which he was exposed at home, Marcus felt an especial interest in him, and had watched his decline with no little solicitude. For several months past, Benny had been able to attend the Sabbath school only occasionally; but every Sunday his young teacher carried or sent to him an attractive book from the library, and in other ways manifested his continued interest in the sick scholar. It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that Marcus heard his mother summoned to Benny’s death-bed, on this pleasant New Year’s morning. An hour later, on his way to the academy, he stopped at Mr. Hapley’s door, to inquire after the patient, and was told that the doctor was still with him, and that the result of his efforts in behalf of the boy was yet uncertain.
In spite of the pleasant associations of the day, and the kindly greetings with which his scholars met him, a cloud hung over the spirits of Marcus, which he was unable to dispel. One incident occurred, however, which was peculiarly grateful to his feelings. On entering the school-room, he was followed by Harrison Clark, who, taking from behind a blackboard a handsomely finished cane, handed it to Marcus, and, with some embarrassment in his manner, said:—
“Mr. Page, will you accept of this as a New Year’s present? It isn’t of much value, but I made it myself on purpose for you.”
“Ah, is this your work?” inquired Marcus, carefully examining the article, which was really well made, in every part. “Did you do it all yourself—head, ferule, rings and all?”
“Yes, sir—Mr. Tucker let me use his tools, and I did the whole of the work myself,” replied Harrison.