"'A crown upon his foreheadA harp within his hand.'"
"'A crown upon his foreheadA harp within his hand.'"
"'A crown upon his foreheadA harp within his hand.'"
"'A crown upon his forehead
A harp within his hand.'"
"He is clothed with spotless robes and with the choir of infant worshippers is singing praise to the Lamb forever. Doesn't it comfort you to think of Amy there?"
She wiped away her tears and said, softly, "I should love to think of her in heaven; but, oh, I shall be dreadfully lonesome without her."
I put out my hand and she shook it as if she could not bear to part. When we were almost out of sight, I looked back, and she was weeping bitterly, while the sexton began to throw the earth upon the coffin.
As we passed the yard where we had seen the rocking-horse, we found two ladies standing near the gate. Presently one of them took a key from her pocket, unlocked it and went in; and then a gentleman of our party recognized in her an old friend.
"This is where our dear Willie is buried," said the lady. "His mother made me promise to come very often to visit the place."
"The last time I saw him, he was riding on his rocking-horse," replied the gentleman, gazing round him with new interest.
"Do you remember how he loved to sing?"
"Yes, ah, yes! but, his songs are ended, now."
"No, indeed!" exclaimed the lady, earnestly; "they are but just begun; I often think how he used to walk with me hour after hour on the beach, humming to himself his favorite hymn,—
"'I have a Father in the promised land,I have a Father in the promised land.My Father calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I have a Father in the promised land,I have a Father in the promised land.My Father calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I have a Father in the promised land,I have a Father in the promised land.My Father calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I have a Father in the promised land,
I have a Father in the promised land.
My Father calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"How little his mother or any of us realized that his Father was calling him."
"Dear child!" I exclaimed, trying to keep back my tears. "And was he willing to go at last?"
"He was almost impatient to be gone. One day his mother sat bathing his hot head, and she said, 'Willie, are you going to leave mother all alone? I thought you loved your sea-side home,—that you liked to hear the waves roar and dash up against the rocks; I didn't think you would be so glad to leave us all.'"
"He looked sadly in her face for a minute, drew her hand to his mouth and kissed it, and then smiles lighted up his pale face as he began to sing,—
"'I have a Saviour in the promised land,I have a Saviour in the promised land.My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I have a Saviour in the promised land,I have a Saviour in the promised land.My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I have a Saviour in the promised land,I have a Saviour in the promised land.My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I have a Saviour in the promised land,
I have a Saviour in the promised land.
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"'Don't cry so, mother,' he said, as he felt her tears drop on his hand; 'do let me sing the rest.' And then in a voice almost of rapture he went on,—"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,I'll away, I'll away to the promised land.My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,I'll away, I'll away to the promised land.My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,I'll away, I'll away to the promised land.My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,
I'll away, I'll away to the promised land.
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"Not an hour before he died, and after he seemed to have lost consciousness, we heard a low, murmuring sound, and on listening intently he was once more repeating these words. I love to come here," added the lady, looking with moistened eyes at the playthings which had belonged to her beloved nephew, "but I love still better to think of him as he is now—a bright angel before the throne of God, tuning his harp to the praises of God forever and forever."
Dear little boy or girl who may road this story of Willie's grave, will you not try to live so that when your heavenly Father calls, you will gladly obey the summons to heaven? This lovely child was surrounded by everything to make life pleasant. He lived by the sea, where he could see the ships ride by in all their grandeur. He could wander along the smooth beach and pick up glistening shells and stones. His parents had money, and were ready to grant every desire of his heart; and yet he was willing to leave all, and lay his body to rest in the ground. Why could he do this? It was because he had a Friend—a Father—a Saviour in heaven, whom he loved better than the rolling ocean, his pleasant home, or even than his earthly parents.
For more than two years Willie had tried to please this heavenly Friend, by keeping his commandments, by honoring his father and mother, being kind to his brother, correcting the faults in his temper, and doing good to those about him.
This was the reason why Willie could answer so cheerfully when God called him home,—
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,My Saviour calls me, I must goTo meet him in the promised land.'"
"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.'"
"I'm glad that old woman don't live at our house," exclaimed Helen Dobbs, in a petulant tone. "Is she any relation of yours, or what is it makes you wait on her so?"
"Oh, there's a sad story about her," answered Jane. "I must get mother to tell you about her son."
"Well, I know I wouldn't be bothered with her. Just think how often she calls you to do something, when we're having such a good time at our play."
"Yes, I know; and I'm sorry to say that often I am angry to be interrupted. Then she is sometimes cross herself; and I have to think of all we owe her before I can readily oblige her. But mother says, instead of hurting me, all this discipline will do me good, if I keep my own heart right."
"I'm sure, Jane, I don't know what you mean."
"Well, perhaps I don't explain it right. But I'll try to tell you. One day, Grandma Frost—we always call her grandma, though she's no relation to us—was sick, or nervous, or cross, and as I was going down stairs I heard her speak quite sharply to mother. I was real angry; you know, I have naturally a very passionate temper, though I do try to control it, so I ran right into the room with my face as red as fire."
"'I shouldn't think you would speak so,' I exclaimed, 'when mother does nothing but wait upon you from morning till night.'"
Helen laughed aloud. "That's right! What did the old woman say?"
"No. I knew I was doing wrong; at least as soon as I had spoken. And when mother fixed her eyes upon me in such a grieved way, I was sorry enough to bite my lips off. 'Go out of the room,' grandma said. I ran to my chamber, and had a great cry. Then mother came in and sat down by me, and talked, oh, so beautifully! I cried harder than ever, but I wasn't angry then; and ever since, when she asks me to do something which I dislike I have only to stop a moment and call to mind what mother said, to be ready to do anything grandma asks."
"Well, you may do it if you like," cried Helen, her nose turned up in a most contemptuous manner; "but I shan't be such a fool as to humor all her whims. All I can say is, that if such an old woman were at our house I'd soon make her mend her manners or I'd contrive some way to be rid of her."
"You wouldn't say so, if you knew how she came to be here," was the tremulous reply. "I can't tell you, for I always begin to cry, but mother will; I'll ask her this very evening."
Company called, however, which prevented this; and a day or two of Helen's visit passed, without her learning the reason for Mrs. Dobbs's great kindness and forbearance with a woman, evidently from a low station in life, and who exhibited no gratitude for such favors.
One morning Mrs. Dobbs accompanied her husband to the city, about four miles distant, and Jane was away on an errand. Helen, therefore, was left to amuse herself as she pleased. She read in the library until she was tired, and then sauntered through the hall up-stairs to her own chamber.
As she passed Mrs. Frost's room she heard a querulous voice, calling, "Miss Dobbs!" "Jane! Jane!"
Helen, naughty girl that she was began to laugh. "Now I'll have some fun," she thought.
She kept quiet, and the calling ceased; but the moment she began to make her boots squeak, the old lady cried, "Jane!" "Miss Dobbs! I want yer."
"I have a great mind," said Helen to herself, "to go in and give her a real blowing up. I'm sure she deserves it, and it's somebody's duty; for she does abuse, Mrs. Dobbs shamefully." She started to go into the room just as the old lady began to sob out, "I might as well be dead and laid by the side of Jotham; for nobody cares for me now."
"What are you crying for?" inquired Helen, walking toward the bed.
"Where's Miss Dobbs?"
"Gone to the city."
"And Jane, too?"
"No; Jane has gone down to the store."
"They might have told me they were going," faltered the old woman, beginning to cry again.
"'Tisn't very likely Mrs. Dobbs would ask your leave every time she wished to go out," answered Helen, her anger getting the better of her prudence. "I think 'twould appear much better in you to be thankful that you have a good home here, instead of finding fault all the time as you do. I'm sure everybody sees how Mrs. Dobbs and Jane make slaves of themselves to put up with your whims."
Mrs. Frost grew deadly pale, and caught her breath with difficulty; but without noticing it, Helen went on;
"Even the servants complain of your ill temper; and Hannah gave notice yesterday that she must leave if she couldn't get better rest, for what with your scolding and whining she didn't sleep half the night. I'm sure if they have to keep you here, I don't see what you want to make yourself so disagreeable for."
The old woman threw up her hands, as if her distress was beyond her power to express, and then sank back on the pillow, with such unmistakable marks of suffering that Helen became alarmed.
She flew to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, and then dashed a tumbler full of water in the sick woman's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" cried Hannah, rushing into the room.
"I was only talking to her, and she fell right back," responded the young girl.
"Well, let me come, for you look about as pale as she does. Why, I declare! I do believe she's dead or in a swoon. Ring again, miss; will you, for the cook? I'm sure, I don't think mistress can blame me, for I only ran down to do some little chores; and I left her asleep, too."
Mrs. Peasely, the cook, now made her appearance; and a moment after Jane came running gaily up the stairs.
"Why, Helen, what are you crying about?" she said putting her arms round her friend's neck.
"Don't speak to me now!" was the impatient response. "I'm frightened almost to death."
"Jane," called out Mrs. Peasely, coming to the door, "Do run and find somebody to go for the doctor. I do wish your mother was here."
The young girl darted to the side of the bed, gave one lingering glance at the pale form lying there, and then sprang forward exclaiming, "I'll go myself; I saw him riding down the street."
Before the doctor came, Mrs. Dobbs returned from town. Mrs. Frost, under the vigorous measures of the cook, had revived from her long swoon, and was lying quiet and apparently asleep, while Helen was in her room writing a request to her mother to send for her to go home.
Jane came in and began to expostulate. "Why!" said she, "your mother gave you leave to stay all summer."
Helen burst into tears. "I wouldn't stay here when that old woman dies; no, not for the world." She shuddered as she added, "I don't like to be in the house when there are death and funerals."
"We must all die, sometime," murmured Jane, in a thoughtful tone. "But," she added after a minute, "mother doesn't think she will die at present; she says she has been subject to these faint turns ever since Jotham died; only she staid in this longer than usual."
"I heard her speak of Jotham," said Helen, growing very red. "Was he her son?"
"Yes, but I can't bear to think about him." Tears gushed to Jennie's eyes; but she put her hand on her friend's letter, and saying, "Don't send it!" left the room.
FOR several days Mrs. Frost was very ill. The doctor came regularly morning and evening, and pronounced her case a critical one. Mrs. Dobbs looked pale and careworn; Jane, sorrowful, and Helen, with an increasing weight on her conscience, peevish and irritable.
The poor girl believed that her conduct had induced the old woman's sickness, and might be the means of her death; but this she kept strictly in her own breast, only replying to Jane's constant inquiries, "I am homesick."
At length the worst symptoms began to abate. The invalid's appetite returned, and hope was entertained that she would recover from this attack.
Mrs. Dobbs was unwearied in her care and tenderness. Mr. Dobbs searched the market for game and other dainties to tempt the palate of his sick guest. Jennie ran up and down stairs with new alacrity; sacrificing her own wishes to the happiness of the old woman. Helen only remained gloomy and restless.
"What can it mean?" she asked herself one day, when she overheard Mrs. Dobbs praising the servants for their ready assistance during their late affliction, adding that five dollars had been added to the credit of each of them. "What reason have they for treating her so well? If it was their own mother, they couldn't do more."
Since that eventful day when she had gone uninvited into the sick room, she had never entered there; but now, one morning, Jane came running to find her, saying, "Grandma Frost asked for you; she wants to see you!"
"I wont go!" exclaimed Helen, blushing violently. "If you and your family choose to run at her beck and call, you may; but I sha'n't."
"Why, Helen!" cried her friend, regarding her with surprise. "What does make you so prejudiced against grandma?"
"Who is in there?" inquired the young girl, without replying.
"Nobody now. Mother's lying down. You know she watched again last night, and grandma is as kind and pleasant as possible. I never knew anybody so changed. Come, do go up with me."
"What do you suppose she wants me for?"
"For nothing particular. She asked whether you were here yet, and then said she would like to see you."
Helen rose without a word and followed her friend to the chamber.
The old woman fixed her sharp eyes a moment upon Helen's face, then smiled as she held out her hand.
"I'm sorry you've been so sick," faltered the young girl in a scarcely articulate tone.
In truth she was greatly shocked. She could scarcely breathe. The sight of that haggard face, and those sunken eyes, so affected her, that she longed to run from the room.
Still holding her hand, the old woman said, "Jennie tells me you read beautifully; will you read a chapter for me?"
"In a minute, I will." Poor girl! she felt it absolutely necessary for her to breathe the air, she was so stifled. She ran down the stairs, and did not stop until she had reached the arbor.
"Oh! how sick she does look!" she cried out, "What if she should die? I never, never will give way to my temper again! But I must go back; I can't stay here. I must go and read to her."
Mrs. Dobbs had arisen from her couch to give the invalid her medicine. When Helen entered, she noticed a slight flush on her patient's countenance, and moved her hand that the young girl had better retire.
"I want her here," said Mrs. Frost, with her sharp ringing tone. "I want to tell her, and to tell you, Miss Dobbs, and you, Jane, that if I am cross and impatient, I do thank you for your kindness and forbearance."
Her voice trembled as she added, "You must forgive an old heart-broken woman for her peevishness and impatience; but never think I don't realize how much you and yours have done to comfort me; no, don't think that."
Mrs. Dobbs gazed in surprise at the sick woman, and then at Helen's flushed cheeks.
"There is something here which I do not understand," she said to herself; "but this is not the time to inquire about it."
In the evening, Jane happened to be sitting with Helen in the parlor, when Mrs. Dobbs entered.
After a moment, Jane said, "Mother, will you please to tell Helen about Jotham? She can't understand, why we have grandma here, and do so much for her."
"With pleasure, my dear; though it is a sad story." She drew her sewing from the basket, and began.
"It was near the commencement of the dreadful war which is now desolating our country, that your father considered it his duty to enlist. He joined a regiment then forming in —; and after arranging his business as speedily as possible, left for the camp. Here he remained for, several weeks, expecting soon to be ordered to Washington, when one evening a messenger came; requesting his immediate presence in the city, on account of trouble in his store. The head clerk had absconded with money and notes to a large amount. Unless some vigorous measures were taken, the labor and savings of a whole life would be sacrificed. I was greatly distressed, and knew not what to do. I went to my chamber, and endeavored to throw my burden upon one who has promised to aid his suffering children. All at once I determined to send to one of our neighbors for a young man, and get him to go to the camp."
"Jotham Frost was the only child of the sick woman up-stairs. At that time she was in good health, earning a comfortable support by her own exertions. Jotham had, from a child, been often employed in our family,—sometimes to pick strawberries, sometimes to run of errands, and of later years as groom. He was extremely fond of horses, and had a peculiar faculty for managing them."
"On the night I speak of, he at once signified his willingness to proceed to L—, and carry a letter to his master."
"The next evening, Mr. Dobbs reached home. But he was so changed I scarcely knew him. Camp life had proved unfavorable to his health, and he now and then startled me by a dry, hollow cough. Then he had passed the whole day in the city, trying to straighten out his affairs, and assist the police who were in pursuit of the wicked clerk. He retired to bed, but he could not sleep. He rose, and, going into the next room, began to pace the floor. Then I heard his voice in prayer. I joined him and kneeled by his side. He was beseeching his heavenly Father to make known to him the path of duty. 'If my country demands of me this sacrifice,—my health; my life; my property,—if it is thy will, O God! help me to submit cheerfully. I give it all into thy hands, lead me by thy finger.'"
"After this he retired to bed and slept peacefully for several hours."
"When we went to breakfast, and a sad meal it was, I saw Jotham busy in the yard with the horses. I noticed that he kept looking toward the window, and throwing up the sash I spoke to him.
"'I want to see Mr. Dobbs, afore he leaves the house!' he said eagerly."
"We went through the form of eating, and then once more committed ourselves and all our anxieties to God."
"Your father then went out to see Jotham. I stood gazing abstractedly from the window, and I wondered what could be the subject of conversation. We often ask God to help us, and then we wonder at his readiness to do so. While we had been speaking God had heard. But of this I knew nothing at the time. I saw Jotham growing every moment more earnest and excited. I witnessed my husband's motion of dissent again and again; then they came quickly toward the house, but passed the door and went toward the cottage of Mrs. Frost."
"I cannot tell you yet what an hour that was which followed to the poor, lone widow. I knew nothing of it at the time. At the end of it my husband and Jotham came back together. The young man was dressed in his Sunday suit, and looked bright and handsome. There was a light in his eye I had never noticed before."
"'Put the black mare into the open buggy as quickly as possible,' said my husband in an excited tone, 'and I'll be ready.'"
"I couldn't account for it, but he seemed anxious to avoid my eye. He made some hurried changes in his dress, then was about to leave the room, but turned and pressed me in his arms, whispering, 'Pray for me to-day, Mary; put your trust in God and hope for the best.'"
"His tone was so earnest that I began to weep. I had not the slightest suspicion what he was about to do. The day passed wearily enough. Had I known that my nearest neighbor was crying her very life away, I should have tried to comfort her. Many, many times I retired to my closet and asked my Father in heaven to prosper my dear husband in his endeavors to arrange his business; and if trial were before us, to help us submit cheerfully to his will."
"It was nearly dusk when I heard the sound of wheels; and, rushing to the door, saw my husband sitting by the side of Widow Frost, while Jotham walked proudly up the yard by them. He took his mother in his arms and set her upon the steps, while Mr. Dobbs called a servant to take away the horse, and then followed them into the house."
"'Call Jane and Thomas,' he said to me. 'I want to see you all in the parlor.'"
"I HAD seated Mrs. Frost on the sofa, and Jotham was near her with his arm around her waist. I waited in wonder the explanation of all this, for now I saw that the widow's face bore the marks of excessive grief."
"While we delayed for the children, Mr. Dobbs walked to the window, and again was that hollow cough which struck like a death-knell on my heart."
"'Wife,' he began, when they entered, 'last night you heard me ask God for help. He has heard my prayer. I had enlisted in the service of my country, but had become already aware that I never could endure camp life; then came the dreadful announcement that unless I could give personal and untiring attention to my business, all the savings of my life would be lost. I went to the commanding officer and tried to be released, for a time if no more; but this was impossible. Cavalry were needed, and we must proceed to Washington at once. I came home with a heavy heart. I went to bed and tried to bear up under the burden like a man. Then I remembered that as a Christian I was not obliged to bear it alone. I fell on my knees and besought my Saviour to help me. While I was speaking he heard me. He put it into the heart of this dear boy to offer himself as my substitute. While I was sleeping quietly, he was pleading with his widowed mother to consent that he should leave her. He is her all; and is it strange that for a long time she refused?'"
"Mrs. Frost had been weeping silently all the time my husband spoke; now she cried aloud."
"Jotham tried to soothe her. 'Keep up good courage, mother,' he said. 'You'll live to see me a colonel yet. The war wont last forever, and I shall be a great man when I come home. Mr. Dobbs has promised to take care of you while I'm gone.'"
"And then my husband called us all to witness that he would provide for the widowed mother, as long as God gave him the ability. I gladly joined in the promise. I need not stop to tell you more of that scene. Mr. Dobbs gave Jotham the black mare, and all his outfit. He joined the regiment of cavalry at once. His only charge being as he rode away, 'Take good care of mother till I come home!'"
"Mr. Dobbs and I rode to L—, to see them off, and I thought there was no one in the company who looked so handsome in his uniform, or rode his horse so proudly as Jotham."
"Mrs. Frost, who could not be persuaded to accompany us, lest she should always dream of him in battle, tried, for our sakes, to appear cheerful. She insisted that she was happier at home where everything reminded her of him, than she should be to come here."
"Every night, either Jane or I used to go down to her cottage and read the papers. If there was anything concerning the regiment of cavalry to which Jotham belonged, she would cut it out and lay it between the leaves of her large family Bible."
Mrs. Dobbs paused as if reluctant to proceed, while Helen who had been stealthily wiping the tears from her eyes, exclaimed,—
"Oh, I'm afraid Jotham is dead!"
"Every week," continued the lady with a sigh, "the widow received a letter from her son. He was well, and enjoying himself exceedingly. He said that he had never for one moment regretted offering himself as a substitute; that his heart was set on going to the war, and if he had not done it then, he should later."
"Mr. Dobbs wrote the commanding officer, with whom he was well acquainted, and received an answer that Jotham's conduct was unexceptionable; that on the Sabbath when many of the soldiers were strolling about, he was in his tent reading his Bible, or with a few congenial companions singing hymns."
"At last there came the news of a terrible battle. My husband opened the paper in the city, read that the — regiment of cavalry were engaged, and turned, with almost suspended breath, to the list of killed and wounded. Alas, he saw it too soon! There it was, '—Cavalry, Jotham Frost.' The thought of the poor mother overcame him. Oh, what a comfort it was in that hour of sorrow, that for the early lost there was no occasion to mourn! He was safe at home, resting forever in the bosom of his God. He had fought his fight, and gone to receive his reward."
"Mr. Dobbs came home at once, and went alone to communicate the sad tale. The widow clasped her hands, and gave one shriek of agony, exclaiming, 'I knew it, I felt it. I was sure I should never see him again!' From that time to this she has never known a well day. The sorrow pierced to her very heart. Do you wonder, Helen, that we are anxious to do everything for her comfort? Do you wonder that we try to bear with her little failings, and to make her path to the grave as easy and comfortable as is in our power? She has sacrificed her all to us, for my husband would never have let Jotham go without his mother's consent. Is it too much for us to share our home with her, to soothe her grief, to bear patiently with her feeble wailings—the wailings of a broken heart?"
How could Helen find words to reply? Her conscience had condemned her loudly in the morning; and now her heart bitterly reproached her for adding to the burden of one who had already suffered so much. Her head drooped upon her breast as she thought, "What would Mrs. Dobbs, what would her husband, say of me if they knew how I had treated the old woman?"
"Only think!" cried Jennie, "but for her I might now be without a father."
Helen burst into tears, and ran quickly, from the room.
The next morning when Mrs. Dobbs went to inquire how the invalid passed the night, she found the young visitor lingering near the door of the sick room.
"I should like to see Mrs. Frost," she began, in a confused manner, her cheeks glowing like fire. "Can I go in a minute?"
"Oh, yes!" answered the lady, with a smile.
Helen walked straight to the bed, and hiding her face in her hands, said quickly, "I am sorry I said that to you the other day; I didn't know then—I hadn't heard—about—Jotham." With a convulsive movement of the throat to keep, back the sobs, she went on: "If Mrs. Dobbs will let me, I should like to stay by you and take care of you, and love you for Jotham's sake."
The old woman grew very pale, but answered calmly, "I am glad for your own sake that you are sorry; but you have done me good. My grief was making me selfish. You told me plainly how disagreeable my conduct made me appear, and I determined, God helping me, I would show out the gratitude that is in my heart toward this dear family. Now, my child, you may read me a few verses from the good Book, and then I must rest."
From this time Helen and Jane vied with each other who could do most for the comfort of grandma. Helen was wholly unused to sickness, and was often awkward in her services; but all saw that her heart was touched, and her kind friend hoped the lesson would be of great benefit to her through life.
Certainly, during her visit, she, for the first time, learned the secret of true happiness. The sacrifice of our own wishes to the comfort of others brings a rich reward to our own hearts.
"O Jennie!" exclaimed the impulsive girl, clasping her arms around her friend's neck; "how quickly the summer has passed; and how pleasantly, since that dreadful time when grandma was so ill. How differently I feel toward her from what I did when I first came. I love her now almost more than anybody else."
"Yes, my dear," remarked Mrs. Dobbs, "because with her is connected the consciousness of having done right."
MY young reader, were you ever in a hospital? Did you ever walk through the long rooms, called wards, among the rows of neat beds, with the white curtains before each couch, that the sufferer within may be entirely hidden from the view of even her nearest neighbors? Did you ever see the hospital surgeons, on what the patients call "student's day," when they go from one ward to another; a train of young surgeons following behind, visiting each couch in succession, and enquiring into the symptoms of each poor sufferer?
In one of the large hospitals belonging to the city of B —, there one morning lay a young girl, apparently about twenty years of age. Her name was Ruth Martin. She had been very sick, and had had a severe operation performed; but she was now better, though not the slightest trace of color had yet visited her cheeks or lips. Lying constantly in bed, as she had been obliged to do for several weeks, she had become exceedingly restless, and the night seemed very long. It was now near five o'clock, and would soon be day. She lay for some time amusing herself by watching those of her neighbors who came within her line of vision. Most of them were asleep, while the night watchers or nurses, who sit up regularly every night and sleep through the day, were leaning drowsily back in their rocking chairs.
The curtains were all drawn back from the beds, and presently Ruth saw Miss Alden, the head nurse of her ward, step softly from a side room and open the door into the next apartment, for the better circulation of the air.
There seemed some unusual movement in the adjoining room, but she could not see what it was. "Could Alick be dying?" she asked herself, her pulse beating wildly.
"Miss Stiles," she called softly, "I'm so thirsty I can't sleep."
Nurse arose mechanically, and brought her a glass of water. "I wish I knew," she said, "how Alick is this morning?"
"Hush, child! he's just gone. His mother, poor thing, was with him till three, when she went home to wash for an hour or two. I'm afraid he'll be off before she gets back, and that'll just about break her heart."
At this minute, there arose from the next room, a sound, low, but inexpressibly sweet and touching. It was the voice of the dying boy, singing with clear, distinct articulation, the words of the beautiful hymn,—
"I want to be an angel,And with the angels stand,—A crown upon my forehead,A harp within my hand."There, right before my Saviour,So glorious and so bright,I'd wake the sweetest musicAnd praise him day and night."
"I want to be an angel,And with the angels stand,—A crown upon my forehead,A harp within my hand."There, right before my Saviour,So glorious and so bright,I'd wake the sweetest musicAnd praise him day and night."
"I want to be an angel,And with the angels stand,—A crown upon my forehead,A harp within my hand."There, right before my Saviour,So glorious and so bright,I'd wake the sweetest musicAnd praise him day and night."
"I want to be an angel,
And with the angels stand,—
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand.
"There, right before my Saviour,
So glorious and so bright,
I'd wake the sweetest music
And praise him day and night."
With the last lines the voice faltered; then there came a quick, short gasp for breath; a bright smile broke out all over the pale face, and before the echo of the words had died out of the room, the soul of the patient sufferer had fled away from his tenement of clay, to the presence and embrace of the Saviour he loved.
The nurse who had so tenderly watched by his side, gently closed his eyes; breathing a sigh of heartfelt sympathy for the absent mother, when, with a quick step, that mother entered the room. She gave one keen, penetrating glance around; then her eye fell on the good nurse who only pointed to the calm, almost smiling countenance, lying so peacefully in the early morning light.
Still her heart refused to comprehend the truth. "He is but sleeping!" she said, softly approaching and placing her hand on his cheek.
"Oh, Alick!" she cried, as the cold marble touch chilled the blood in her veins; "gone without a word of farewell to your poor, desolate mother!" and throwing herself on her knees she hid her face in her hands, while great sobs shook her whole frame.
Two men now approached with long boards and handles attached, which they call stretchers, to bear away the dead body to another apartment.
They stood a moment, out of respect to the absorbing grief of the bowed form, and then the nurse gently touched her.
She understood at once that she must bid farewell, her long farewell, to the dear object of her affections. Stooping forward she lifted the lifeless body in her arms, and pressed her lips on the cheeks, the brow, eyes, and lips of the departed.
"Farewell, darling!" she whispered, tears raining down her cheeks; "farewell till I come to you. You're safe now with Jesus, and I'll be with you before long." Then without another word, she turned, and, hiding her face in her shawl, left the room.
The patients were now all wide awake. Ruth could see the men bearing slowly along the body so lately full of life, and two or three patients devoutly crossing themselves, as it passed close to their bed. For a few moments there was a solemn stillness throughout the two wards. One of their number had passed from time to eternity; had exchanged the trials and pains of earth for the triumphs and glories of heaven. Some, and among them Ruth, asked herself, "am I prepared, as Alick was, for the glorious transformation,—a sinner one moment, a saint the next?" She breathed a short prayer that she, too, might be ready when her summons came; when looking up, she saw the kind face of Miss Alden bending over her.
"How do you feel, this morning, Ruth?"
"Oh, Miss Alden! Alick is dead. I have not thought of myself," was the quick reply.
"Little dear, so he is! He wanted to be an angel, and Jesus answered his prayer right away. If we were all as ready as he was, 'twould be a happy thing for us. I hope you love your Saviour, Ruth!"
Her eyes fell, as she answered softly, "I'm afraid not!"
"Well, don't delay a minute then, to seek him for your friend. I've been in the wards long enough to know, if I never knew it before, that religion is the only thing that can carry us safely through the dark valley; and it makes the poor things so happy, too. Death is no king of terrors to those who love Jesus. He is their dearest friend, come to call them home to their mansion above the skies."
Ruth lay pondering these words; though her eyes followed the good nurse as she went from one couch to another, smoothing the clothes over one restless sufferer, or giving medicine to another.
Then the dumb waiters, or dummies, as they were called, came up loaded with the breakfast; when the nurse set the table, to which all who were able to walk soon seated themselves. To those who were strictly confined to their beds the nurses carried food nicely arranged on little waiters.
The meal was scarcely concluded, when a porter appeared at the door, bearing in his arms a child about five years of age, which he conveyed to a large chair turning back like a couch, and then left her in the care of Miss Alden.
"Bad case!" Ruth heard him whisper, "leg burnt to a crisp!"
Here, then, was a new appeal to the sympathy of the patients; and no one can tell what a relief it is to these poor suffering ones to have a child, a loving, helpless child, before their eyes to divert their attention from themselves.
Even the poor Englishwoman whose face was swollen to the size of two, with erysipelas, and whose constant cry was, "Oh, this hitch in my face!" held her breath to gaze at the pale new comer.
The child, whose name was Mary Larkin, was dressed with exquisite neatness and even taste. Her hair, which was chestnut brown, was smoothly parted from her forehead; a narrow frill was basted into the neck of her dress, which was of soft blue merino; one tiny foot, which had escaped from the shawl which covered her, was cased in a dainty little slipper, the elastic evenly crossed above the open-work sock, while the embroidered pantalet was just visible.
Mary took kindly to Miss Alden, at once, as indeed every body did. She clung tightly to her hand casting shy glances around. It was a novel scene to her, and for a few moments so occupied her attention that she forgot her pain.
In a kind, motherly voice Miss Alden asked, "Wouldn't you like to lie in a nice little house, as the other people do, and have your dolly, and some pretty playthings in there to play with?"
"Yes ma'am, I should."
"Well, let go my hand a minute, and I'll have it all ready for you. You're a good little girl, I am sure."
"I guess you're going to be my mother, now," said Mary, with an arch glance which altered her whole countenance.
MARY LARKIN was the daughter of a tailor. He had two other children, one son of seven years, and a daughter scarcely as many months. Hers was a sad case. One day she and her brother Thomas were playing in the kitchen where their mother was washing; the baby was lying in his cradle, amusing himself with his toes, when suddenly there was a dreadful shriek of distress, and Mrs. Larkin turned to see Mary in a large kettle of boiling water. Thomas had become angry with his little sister and pushed her there.
On reaching the child, the mother found one foot and ankle completely submerged, so that when the stocking was removed, not only the skin, but some of the flesh came with it.
As soon as it was possible, a physician was summoned, who prescribed for a few days, and then advised her to be sent to the hospital, where she could have constant care. He did not tell the almost distracted mother that her child would, doubtless, have to suffer the loss of a limb, though he anticipated it from the first, and was sure it would be better, both for the mother and child, that she should be removed.
As soon as these particulars about the young stranger were known, they excited universal sympathy. Mary appeared to be a lively, affectionate child. Just now there were marks of suffering on her face; her eyes had a dark circle around them, and her brow was often contracted; but there was an occasional sparkle in her bright orbs, a slight elevation of the eyebrows, which made her almost beautiful.
She was Irish, and had a rich brogue quite peculiar even among the children brought up in America. It was not many days before she had given her own names to the different persons about her. One of the nurses whose name was Cowles, she designated as "Miss Knowles," and never varied from this title. The kind lady who every few days brought her flowers, fruit and playthings, she called "the lady in black." The woman with the dreadful hitch in her face, was "Patty McNiles's bye," because she was always talking about her "bye," boy.
Though Mary was a constant sufferer, she scarcely ever complained. At first she sympathized too keenly with those about her, and often asked Miss Alden, whom she called "Darling," whether it was not time to give such a patient her medicine, whether it would not do Ruth's hands good to spat them. She had seen this done once when the circulation seemed suspended.
Sitting in her lounging chair, her poor burnt limb laid on a pillow before her, her dolly over her shoulder, she seemed to notice everything which passed around her.
One day Ruth told her about Alick, and how sweetly he sung just before he went to heaven. She was silent for some time after this, and the next time she saw the nurse, asked softly,—
"Darling, do you think I shall die as Alick did? If I do, will you let me sing?"
The house-doctor used to come every day, and apply fresh starch bandages to Mary's limb. This caused her the keenest agony, and all her fortitude could not keep her from uttering sharp cries. But she soon regained her cheerfulness, and seemed to comfort herself with the thought that it was over for that day.
One morning, Ruth, whose couch was near Mary's, and who had just been separating a bunch of hot-house flowers to share with her little friend, saw that the surgeon stopped longer than usual, by her lounging chair; that he made some explanations in technical terms to the students around him, then gave a few directions to Miss Alden before he passed on.
Poor Mary tried hard to be patient, but could not repress some screams. As soon as the surgeon had bound up the limb, the smiles broke out again over her face, though her lashes wore yet heavy with tears. "I guess you've got a cent, doctor," she said archly.
This was said in consequence of a promise he made her one day, if she would be a good girl while he dressed her leg, he would give her a cent.
The doctor laughed, and threw a penny into her lap, when many of the students followed his example.
In the afternoon the porter who brought Mary up, came for her again. Miss Alden expected him, and had her patient ready; but there was no smile on her face as she saw the child borne carefully away.
"Where is Mary going?" cried Ruth.
"She has gone to the operating-room, to have her foot and ankle taken off," answered the nurse in a faltering voice.
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry!" came from one and another of the patients.
"She'll never know it, little dear," added the nurse. "She'll take ether, and a blessed thing ether is too."
In less than an hour Mary returned, and was laid tenderly on her bed. She seemed exhausted, and had scarcely recovered her consciousness. She smiled, though, when "Darling" bent over and kissed her, and then fell quietly asleep.
It was not until the next morning, that she seemed aware of what had taken place. She gazed at her limb as if she could not understand how her foot had disappeared; then, as if suddenly realizing her loss, her voice quivered, and there was scarcely a dry eye about her, as she repeatedly inquired,—
"How will I walk about, now?"
Toward her brother, who in a fit of passion had maimed her for life, she seemed to cherish not the slightest resentment; but talked often of him and her baby brother, in the most affectionate terms. Visitors were extremely kind to her, and seemed to vie with each other who could do most for her comfort. On such occasions she would always portion off her toys or cake, saying in her own rich brogue, "This shall be for Tommy; and this, for baby; and this, for me."
It was astonishing how soon she reconciled herself to the idea of the loss she had sustained. No one knew where she picked up the word, but when she accidentally hit her wounded limb, instead of crying, she would say,—
"Oh, Mary! I'm sorry for your poor stump!"
For a few days she suffered much less than before the amputation, and entered into whatever was ludicrous or mirthful, with all her heart.
When the patients were able to be out of bed, there were a few rocking chairs which they could use. One woman who was dropsical claimed one of these for her own exclusive use. Even when she was too tired to remain out of bed, she would remonstrate loudly against its removal.
Ruth, who was now convalescent, had often watched her proceedings with much merriment, and one time when all was quiet, and the night-nurse absent from the room for a moment, she slipped from her bed and removed the chair to quite the other end of the apartment.
The woman awoke with the first ray of light, and soon discovered the loss of her chair. With a shout that roused every one from their slumbers, she called Miss Stiles, who was innocently reposing in it, to bring it back at once.
"I'll know who did this," she exclaimed looking defiantly about. "I'll know it before night!"
When the doctor made his morning call, instead of answering his question as to how she had slept, she gave him a description of the kind of treatment to which she was exposed.
"But I'll know who did it; I'll know," she kept repeating.
"You're worse off than the woman with a hitch in her face," he said with a quiet smile; "you have a hitching chair. But I dare say Miss Alden will make it all right."
There was some inquiry made as to who was the author of the mischief; but without any discovery. The woman grumbled all day, that she was "dacent,—as dacent as any one in the hospital. She had had two husbands, and was as dacent as any one, and would not submit to such tratement."
When night came, she was evidently worse; but nothing would induce her to retire until the rest had done so; and then she made sure of her prize by tying her garters together, fastening one end to the chair, and the other round her neck.
When the doctor came the next day, he found her so, and with a much quickened pulse.
"Did you move the chair?" he asked softly, approaching Ruth's bed.
He had seen her eyes sparkle with merriment, and concluded her the rogue.
"Yes, sir, I did it."
"Well, you had better keep your bed at night, in future."
Little Mary, as well as the others, amused herself talking about the woman with a chair tied round her neck. They all saw how selfish she was, and how disagreeable her selfishness made her. Poor woman, she lived but a short time after this, and died lamenting that since she came to the hospital she had "lost her muff,—a fine dacent one, too."
But soon, Mary's limb below the knee began to show signs of mortification; and after a few days of severe suffering, it was found necessary to have another operation, and take it off higher.
She understood now what was to be done; but when Miss Alden told her the surgeons would do it while she was asleep so that it wouldn't hurt her, she submitted without a word.
The most remarkable trait in this patient child was her truthfulness. She had evidently been well taught at home, for nothing would induce her to tell a lie.
She used often to call one and another of the patients to her chair to button her dolly's dress, or tie a string in her apron.
"Come here, Maggy Jones," she called one day. "Please come here!"
"No, I can't; my foot is cut off," answered the girl, laughing.
"O Maggy, that's a wicked lie! I see your two feet; oh, where will you go now?"
This she said in a voice of great distress, and never afterwards believed anything the girl told her.
One day, after the doctor had been playfully teasing her, pinching her cheeks, etc., she said, "I don't like Dr. P—, he's a maninger."
Nurse made her repeat it, and they all laughed, though they couldn't discover what "maninger" meant.
The next day the doctor said gravely, as though he felt hurt, "Don't you like me, Mary?"
Her face was dyed with blushes in an instant; but she replied softly, "Yes, I do."
"But did you say yesterday you didn't, and call me a dreadful name?"
"Yes, I did; but I like you now."
"What did you call me?"
"A maninger."
"And what is a maninger, pray?"
"Why, it's a—a real bad man; I'm sorry now, though."
"Well, I forgive you," he said patting her head, playfully. "Now, remember, we are good friends again."
"Did you say so, Mary?" or, "didn't you say this?" were questions often put to her by the patients, thinking she would deny something she had said. But no, she would not do it; often ending with the emphatic words, "I say it's real wicked to tell a lie!"
By and by, Mary was so well that Dr. P— said she must be carried home, as her bed was needed for another patient. When the ladies who visited the hospital so often heard that, they loaded her with books and toys, and some gave her money.
The day she left, the kind doctor put five dollars which had been given her in small sums, into the bank in her name; and promised if no one else bought her a cork leg, he would do so; that she could go to school.
Ruth was dismissed about the same time, and others were brought in to take their places; but Miss Alden did not soon forget her cheerful little charge, nor the endearing title, "Darling," which Mary had so lovingly given her. She parted from her with many tears, after making her promise to come and see "Darling," as soon as she was able.
I have written you this true story, my young readers, that you may learn in the history of Alick, how peaceful and happy is the death of those who put their trust in God; and by the contrast between little Mary and the dropsical old woman; how much more amiable and beloved are those who endure suffering with meekness and patience, than those who fret and murmur at every trifling annoyance, or repine at the allotments of Providence.
"OH, dear!" exclaimed little Johnny, his full, round face drawn up into a sad scowl, "Oh dear!"
Now I suppose that all the children who read this true story, will imagine that Johnny was sick, or had cut his finger badly, or perhaps had fallen down and bumped his head. But no; he was perfectly well, his fingers were all whole, and he had met with no injury at all.
Perhaps some little Mary or Susy or John, will say, "Johnny must have lived in an old house, with no bed except some straw thrown upon the floor, and no food but a mouldy crust, that was why he kept saying, 'Oh, dear!'"
No, God had given him parents who owned a large, pleasant house, situated on a hill, with winding avenues leading to the front door. Then there was a beautiful lawn in front. You could not guess in a whole day what was on the lawn, so I must tell you. It was a brown and white goat, whose name was Bessie, and her two little kids. The pretty creatures jumped, and frisked, and danced all over the green grass, and sometimes ran away behind the house, to the great trouble of their mother, who was tied, and couldn't follow them. Then Bessie would begin to cry, like Johnny, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" She did not say this in words, but it sounded as if she were complaining of their naughty behavior.
But I must leave telling you about Bessie, for the present, and finish describing Johnny's home. The green lawns extended on each side of the house, but behind the great barn was a kitchen garden, where peas and beans, and sweet corn and tomatoes grew in abundance for the table. Then there were long rows of currant-bushes, and raspberry-bushes, and high blackberries, and beyond these a thriving orchard of apple, pear and peach trees.
Johnny was very fond of all these things, and as he was well, his mother allowed him to eat what he wished of them.
In the barn behind the house, there was a horse, named Billy, and two cows, Sally and Hatty; Sally was mother to Hatty, and nice cows they were, coming home every night with their great bags of rich milk.
Billy was a very kind horse, and though he would sometimes be a little frisky (he was five years old, too, just as Johnny was), yet whenever he felt his young master's light form on his back he would not paw his feet, nor dance at all. He would stand still till all was ready, and then trot gently round the walks.
Johnny's father and mother often went to ride, and almost always the little boy went, too; and then he and his mother had a school as they rode along. She gave him words to spell, and he would laugh when he said them right, and give her words. Sometimes she would spell cat c-p-t, cat. Oh, how the little fellow laughed to think he could spell better than his mother!
Now when God had been so good to Johnny, and given him such kind parents, and such a pleasant home, when he was well, and had not hurt himself at all, what could be the reason that when he woke up in the morning, and a great many times every day he said, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" in that complaining tone.
I am sorry to tell you he had a naughty, wicked habit of fretting.
"Oh, dear! I can't untie the reins to my horse." "Oh, dear! my marbles keep rolling away under the bed." "Oh, dear! I'm too tired to work, I want to play." "Oh, dear! need I study, mother? I'm so warm."
This was what Johnny kept saying over and over again every day, and it troubled his father and mother more and more that their boy, whom God had surrounded with so many blessings, should be so unthankful and complaining.
When Johnny was good-natured his face was very pleasant to look upon. His skin was clear and smooth, his eyes looked out from behind their brown lashes with a merry glance, his mouth was small and well-shaped. But no child can fret a great deal without spoiling the face God has given him, and Johnny's mother was really afraid that his little features would be so drawn up by his saying "Oh, dear," that they never would come straight again.
Beside his parents there were others who were greatly troubled at this habit of Johnny's. He was the youngest of six sons, and the pet of them all. But now one of his older brothers, who was in size almost a man, said, one day,—
"What makes Johnny fret so much? I'm tired of hearing him talk in that whining voice."
A few days after this his brother was going to ride, and Johnny ran out to the carriage, crying, in an eager voice, "Charlie, may I go with you?"
"I'm going to make a call, and I'm afraid you'll fret," his brother answered.
Johnny hung his head, looking very much ashamed, but presently he said, softly, "I'm going to be a good boy now, and not fret any more."
Charlie smiled. "Well, then, you may go," he said.
They had scarcely gone half a mile before the little boy forgot his promise, and in a complaining tone, began,—
"I can't take the whip."
"How do you know you can't?" asked his brother.
"Because I know you won't let me."
"You may be sure I sha'n't, when you whine so. But if you had asked pleasantly, May I take the whip, Charlie? I would have let you. You must remember you never will gain anything from me by whining."
JOHNNY looked very sober a few moments; but then his face brightened up, and a pretty smile danced around his mouth. "I'm sure, now," he said, "I sha'n't fret any more."
"I'm afraid you will," answered his brother, "because you don't ask God to help you break off this bad habit. No one can cure himself of doing wrong by his own strength. When you say your prayers you must ask God to help you."
"I want to ask Him now," said Johnny.
"Well, shut your eyes, and you may."
"I want to be a good boy," began the child, clasping his little hands. "Will you please, God, to help me, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
"Now," said Charlie, "when you feel like fretting, just stop a minute and think. God will put cheerful thoughts in your mind, so you'll forget what you were complaining about."
"He didn't say He would," murmured Johnny. "I didn't hear anything."
"No; but in the Bible He has promised that if we ask for anything we shall receive it; that is, if it is best for us to have it. Now we know it would please Him better to have you the pleasant, good-tempered little fellow you used to be, rather than the whining boy you are now. So if you really ask Him from your heart, I'm sure He will help you to break it off."
When they had made the call, and were returning home, Charlie handed the long whip to his brother.
"Would you like to hold it?" he asked. "I like to please good boys."
Oh, what a happy feeling swelled up in Johnny's heart. Smiles broke out all over his face, and his voice was as cheerful as a canary's. He chattered away about a donkey he expected to have, and a barn he meant to make for it, and a buggy for the donkey to draw him to school.
Charlie laughed heartily at his wonderful plans, and remembered, with a little flush, that once he had done just so.
"I like to be good best," said Johnny, with a smile; "and I'm never going to be naughty again."
The next day his mother was sitting at her work, when she heard Johnny cry out, "Oh, dear! oh, dear! the stones keep rolling out of my wheelbarrow. Oh, dear, I don't want to work any more!"
She sat still, but for some time she could hear his voice fretting and complaining. Then she opened the window and called him in.
"I can't have any dinner, then," he whined out.
"Why, Johnny?"
"Father said I must pick up all these stones, and it makes my head ache. I don't like to work so hard," he cried, looking in his mother's face.
"Where are the stones?" she asked, walking into the yard.
"There,—all those."
"One, two, three, four, five, six," counted his mother, laughing. "Oh, what a great job! Six little stones. There, run and pick them up quick, and then come into my room. I want to tell you something."
"Will you wait, mother?"
"Yes, if you wont be long."
"Oh, I can do it in a minute!" he said, forgetting all his trouble.
His mother took off his hat and wiped his head, which was quite wet with perspiration. Then she washed his hands and face with cool water, and told him to draw his little chair to her side. "We'll have some talk together," she said.
"Do you remember about that kitty you found?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, mother! It was Mrs. Muzzey's. I carried it home in my arms, and I didn't cry when it scratched me a little; but she didn't thank me at all. She just said, 'Well, put her down.'"
The lady smiled at Johnny's indignant tone. "I remember," she went on, "how long it took you to catch the kitty, and how bravely you held her when she tried to jump from your arms and run away. Now suppose Mrs. Muzzey had said, 'I wish you wouldn't trouble me to come to the door—I can't be running round to wait on children all the time,' do you think that would have been a good way to show her gratitude to you?"
"Oh, no indeed!"
"But," added the lady, more seriously, "I know a little boy having a pleasant home, and kind parents, who wish to do all things for his good. Every morning his heavenly Father supplies him with a nice breakfast; every noon, with a good dinner; and every night, with a plentiful supper. He has warm clothes, and a great many other favors. He ought to be very grateful and happy. He ought to keep lifting up his heart to God, and saying, 'thank you, God, for all this.' If he has any little troubles, he ought to remember how many children there are who have no home nor kind parents nor any pretty toys. He ought to say, I wont complain, for I have a great many blessings left. But I am sorry to tell you he does not always do this; he does a great deal worse than Mrs. Muzzey, who did not thank you for carrying her kitty home, for he often forgets his mercies, and—"
Johnny's lip began to quiver. "I didn't want to hear about that," he began. "I wanted to hear a story about the rag pickers."
"Wait awhile; I'll tell you a story some other time. Now I'm afraid that if that little boy does not break himself of this dreadful habit of fretting, that God will take away some of his good things, and give them to another child who will be more thankful. You know you said you wouldn't carry the kitty home again, because she didn't thank you; so God may say, This little Johnny don't remember how many good things I give him. I hear his voice fretting and complaining that he cannot have everything just as he wishes. I will take away his blessings until he can be more thankful for them."
Johnny's face grew very red, while his mother was talking, and presently great tears filled his eyes. "I will be good, mother," he faltered, for his lip was quivering so he could scarcely speak. "I don't want God to take you to heaven. I want us to go together. I will be thankful to Him."
The lady drew her boy to her side, and then they kneeled down together, and asked their Father in heaven to help Johnny to become good and holy and obedient like the dear Jesus. They prayed that he might be thankful that he was not born a heathen child, and taught to bow down to the idols of wood and stone; but that, as he had early been told about the true God and the Saviour of sinners, he might begin at once to love and serve Him.
Johnny listened eagerly to every word of his mother's prayer. When she had concluded he sprung to his feet, and gazing in her face, asked, quickly, "Will He do it? Will He help me to be a good boy?"