"'Bout as sure as a man can be who never seed her. But it won't take
you long to walk. You'd better come and see for yourself."
Without uttering another word, Martin put on his hat, and followed the
policeman. They passed through several streets and lanes, and at length
came to one of the poorest districts of the city, not far-distant from
the shipping. Turning down a narrow alley, and crossing a low
dirty-looking court, Martin's guide stopped before a door, which he
pushed open and mounted by a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a
garret. He opened the door and entered.
"There she is," said the man in a tone of pity, as he pointed to a
corner of the apartment, "an' I'm afeer'd she's goin' fast."
Martin stepped towards a low truckle-bed on which lay the emaciated form
of a woman covered with a scanty and ragged quilt. The corner of it was
drawn across her face, and so gentle was her breathing that it seemed as
if she were already dead. Martin removed the covering, and one glance
at that gentle, careworn countenance sufficed to convince him that his
old aunt lay before him! His first impulse was to seize her in his
strong arms, but another look at the frail and attenuated form caused
him to shrink back in fear.
"Leave me," he said, rising hastily and slipping half a sovereign into
the policeman's hand; "this is she. I wish to be alone with her."
The man touched his hat and retired, closing the door behind him; while
Martin, sitting down on the bed, took one of his aunt's thin hands in
his. The action was tenderly performed, but it awoke her. For the
first time it flashed across Martin's mind that the sudden joy at seeing
him might be too much for one so feeble as Aunt Dorothy seemed to be.
He turned his back hastily to the light and with a violent effort
suppressed his feelings while he asked how she did.
"Well, very well," said Aunt Dorothy, in a faint voice. "Are you the
missionary that was here long ago? Oh! I've been longing for you. Why
did you not come to read to me oftener about Jesus? But I have had him
here although you did not come. He has been saying `Come unto me, ye
that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Yes, I have
found rest in Him." She ceased and seemed to fall asleep again; but in
a few seconds she opened her eyes and said, "Martin, too, has been to
see me; but he does not come so often now. The darling boy used always
to come to me in my dreams. But he never brings me food. Why does no
one ever bring me food? I am hungry."
"Should you like food now, if I brought it to you?" said Martin in a low
voice.
"Yes, yes; bring me food,--I am dying."
Martin released her hand and glided gently out of the room. In a few
minutes he returned with a can of warm soup and a roll; of which Aunt
Dorothy partook with an avidity that showed she had been in urgent need.
Immediately after, she went to sleep; and Martin sat upon the bed
holding her hand in both of his till she awoke, which she did in an hour
after, and again ate a little food.
While she was thus engaged the door opened and a young man entered, who
stated that he was a doctor, and had been sent there by a policeman.
"There is no hope," he said in a whisper, after feeling her pulse; "the
system is quite exhausted."
"Doctor," whispered Martin, seizing the young man by the arm, "can
nothing save her? I have money, and can command _anything_ that may do
her good."
The doctor shook his head. "You may give her a little wine. It will
strengthen her for a time, but I fear there is no hope. I will send in
a bottle if you wish it."
Martin gave him the requisite sum, and in a few minutes the wine was
brought up by a boy.
The effect of the wine was wonderful. Aunt Dorothy's eyes sparkled as
they used to do in days of old, and she spoke with unwonted energy.
"You are kind to me, young man," she said, looking earnestly into
Martin's face, which, however, he kept carefully in shadow. "May our
Lord reward you."
"Would you like me to talk to you of your nephew?" said Martin; "I have
seen him abroad."
"Seen my boy! Is he not dead?"
"No; he is alive, and in this country, too."
Aunt Dorothy turned pale, but did not reply for a few minutes, during
which she grasped his hand convulsively.
"Turn your face to the light," she said faintly.
Martin obeyed, and bending over her whispered, "He is here; I am Martin,
my dear, dear aunt--"
No expression of surprise escaped from Aunt Dorothy as she folded her
arms round his neck, and pressed his head upon her bosom. His hot tears
fell upon her neck while she held him, but she spoke not. It was
evident that, as the strength infused by the wine abated, her faculties
became confused. At length she whispered,--"It is good of you to come
to see me, darling boy. You have often come to me in my dreams. But do
not leave me so soon; stay a very little longer."
"This is no dream, dearest aunt," whispered Martin, while his tears
flowed faster; "I am really here."
"So you always say, my darling child; but you always go away and leave
me. This is a dream, no doubt like all the rest; but oh, it seems very
very real! You never _wept_ before, although you often smiled. Surely
this is the best and brightest dream I ever had!"
Continuing to murmur his name while she clasped him tightly to her
bosom, Aunt Dorothy gently fell asleep.