“His sufferings are past,” she exclaimed, “James, your sufferings are over!” As she uttered the words, the curate was astonished by hearing her burst out into one or two wild hysteric laughs, which happily ended in tears.
“No more,” she continued, “you'll feel no more pain now, my precious boy; your voice will never sound in my ears again; you'll never call on me to say 'mother, take away my pain;' the Sunday mornin' will never come when I will take pride in dressing you. My morning and evening kiss will never more be given—all my heart was fixed on is gone, and I care not now what becomes of me.”
What could the good curate do? He strove to soothe, sustain, and comfort her, but in vain; the poor widow heard him not.
“Jenny,” said she, at length, turning to, the other sick child, “your brother is at rest! James is at rest; he will disturb your sleep now no more—nor will you disturb his.”
“Oh! but he couldn't help it, mammy; it was the pain that made him.”
As the child uttered these words, the widow put her hand to her heart, gave two or three rapid sobs—her bosom heaved, and her head fell back over a chair that was accidentally beside her. Mr. Clement caught her in time to prevent her from falling; he placed her upright on the chair, which he carried to, the little dresser, where he found a jug of water, the only drink she had to give her sick children. With this he bathed her temples and wet her lips, after which he looked upon the scene of death and affliction by which he was surrounded.
“Gracious Father,” he exclaimed, “let, your mercy reach this most pitiable family! Look with eyes of pity and compassion upon this afflicted and bereaved woman! Oh, support her—she is poor and nearly heart-broken, and the world has abandoned her! Oh, do not abandon her, Father of all mercy, and God of all consolation!”
As he concluded, the widow recovered, and felt his tears falling upon her face. On looking she perceived how deeply he was affected. Her lips opened unconsciously with a blessing on him who shared in, and soothed her sorrows—her voice was feeble, for she had not yet recovered her strength; but the low murmur of her prayers and blessings rose like the sounds of sweet but melancholy music to heaven, and was heard there.
Mr. Clement then went over to the bed, and with his own hands smoothed it down for the little sick sister of the departed boy, adjusting the bed-clothes about her as well as he could, for the other children were too., young to do anything. He then divided the hair upon the lifeless child's forehead—contemplated his beautiful features for a moment—caught his little hand in his—let it fall—oh! how lifelessly! he then shook his head, raised his eyes, and pointing to heaven, exclaimed—
“There—Mrs. Vincent, let your hopes lie there.”