“Peter,” she said, drawing him closer to her and speaking in a low voice, “I grieve to part from you, but I grieve more when I think of your poor father. God knows how earnestly I have prayed for him, and I cannot even now believe that he was taken out of the world still ignorant of God’s love and free pardon to all who believe in His Son. I have often dreamed that he has come to me, looking just as he was when he went away, only paler and more careworn; he seemed to ask me to fetch him from some far-off land whence he could not escape. It may have been but an empty dream working on my fancy, and yet I cannot believe that it was so. Oh, what joy it would bring to my heart could I know that he loved the Saviour, and that he is yet alive and the door of mercy still open.”
Peter’s heart was too full of sorrow to let him speak. The waning light prevented him from clearly distinguishing his mother’s countenance, but there seemed to be a strange brightness in her eye as she spoke with failing voice, and the hopes her dying words expressed were imparted to him.
“Bless you, my boy, bless you!” she murmured, in a scarcely audible voice.
His hand was in hers, she pressed it as she spoke, and tried to draw him nearer to her heart. He leant over her, and put his other arm under her head; gradually he felt her hand relax its loving grasp, but many minutes passed before the fear came over him that her spirit had fled.
“Mother, mother!” he earnestly cried; “speak to me.”
There was no answer. He had never been with death before, but he knew too well that she was indeed gone from him.
He sat there long with his face on the bedclothes, too much overwhelmed with grief to move. He longed to go and call Betsy, yet he could not bear to leave his mother’s body. Soon, however, a step was heard, and the old woman herself entered the room.
There was still light sufficient to enable her to see at a glance what had occurred. She stepped up, and closing her dead friend’s eyes, gently led little Peter into the outer room. She had brought a couple of candles with her, purposing to spend the night at the cottage if she was required, and lighting them, she left one with Peter, bidding him sit down while she took up the other.
“When you feel sleepy, my boy, go to bed; the rest will do you good. I’ll stay with your mother; it will be nothing strange to me. I have had so many I loved taken from me, that I am accustomed to watch by the bodies of those who, I hope, went where I am sure she is gone. It’s a blessed thing to know that she is happy in heaven; let that comfort you, Peter, and don’t take on so, boy.”
Saying this, she returned to Mrs Gray’s room.