“No,” replied Marcus, his mind recurring to that passage of Scripture, “There shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”
There was a brief interval of silence, broken only by an occasional half-suppressed sigh that escaped from Jessie, who was seated in a remote corner of the room, and by the slow and regular tread of Mr. Hapley, who was pacing the floor of the chamber overhead, in an agony of grief and remorse. Marcus afterwards learned that a few hours before this, when Benny was thought to be dying, he had entreated his father in a most affectionate and touching manner to abandon the besetting sin which was bringing himself and his family to ruin and disgrace. The strong man, after a brief but desperate struggle, promised the dying boy that he would abandon his cups from that hour, and would try to live in such a way that he might meet his little son in heaven.
Mrs. Hapley, who had been engaged in the kitchen, now came in, with a bottle of hot water, to be applied to Benny’s feet; but he whispered to her:—
“O, mother, I am so cold! Wont you take me up in your arms, and hold me before the fire?”
“Yes, dear,” replied his mother, and she took the boy gently into her arms, wrapped a blanket around him, and sat down before the blazing fire.
This movement seemed to be too much for the boy, for he gasped for breath, and sank exhausted into his mother’s arms. After a few minutes he recovered sufficiently to speak.
“Why, mother,” he said, “how fast it grows dark! I can’t hardly see anything.”
“Jessie, ask your father to come down,” said Mrs. Hapley, trying to speak calmly.
“It is dark here, but it is light there—O, how light!” whispered the dying boy.
“Where?” inquired the mother, scarcely knowing what she asked.