February came in with wind and rain--a sudden thaw, levelling the great
drifts, and sending down through all the hollows swift rushes of
snow-water to cover the ice on the river--to break it up in some places,
to fill the channel full till all the meadows above the millpond were
quite overflowed. It did not last long. It cleared the third night,
and so sudden and sharp was the coming of the cold, that not a murmur of
water was to be heard where it had rushed in torrents the day before,
and the millpond, and the meadows above, lay in the sunshine like a
sheet of molten silver.
In this sudden change, Mr Inglis took cold. It had been like that all
winter. His illness had been very severe, but just as he seemed ready
to throw it off and be himself again, he always seemed to take more
cold, and went back again. It was very trying--very discouraging. This
was what David and Jem were saying to one another one afternoon, as they
took their way down to the mill-dam where many of their companions had
gone before them. It quite spoiled David's pleasure to think about it,
and even Jem looked grave as they went on together.
However, there are few troubles that a pair of skates, and a mile, more
or less, of shining ice, have not power to banish, for a time, at least,
from the minds of boys of twelve and fourteen; and so when they came
home, and their mother met them at the door, telling Jem that he was to
go and ask Dr Gore to come up again, it gave them both a new shock of
pain, and David asked, "Is papa worse, mamma?" with such a sinking of
the heart, as he had never felt before.
"Not seriously worse, I hope," said his mother. "Still the doctor may
as well come up. It will be safest."
Just a little fresh cold, the doctor said, and Mr Inglis must take care
of himself for a few days. The remedies which he prescribed had the
desired effect. In a day or two he was as well as usual; but on Sunday,
when he was nearly through with the morning service, his voice failed so
utterly that his last words were lost to all.
Of course there was no possibility of his going to the Gore in the
afternoon. He could only rest at home, hoping and believing that he
would be well in a little while. Indeed, the thought of the
disappointment to the congregation who would assemble in the afternoon,
was more in his thoughts than any future danger to himself. There need
be no disappointment--at least, the people need not be made to wait; and
David and Jem were sent to tell them that their father was not able to
come, and that they were to read a sermon, and Mr Spry was to conduct
the service as he had sometimes done before.
They took with them a sermon chosen by their father; but Mr Spry was
not there, nor Mr Fiske, nor any one who thought himself capable of
reading it as it ought to be read.
"Suppose you give them Miss Bethia's sermon, Davie," said Jem, laughing.
"Don't, Jem," said David, huskily. Something rising in his throat would
hardly let him say it, for the remembrance of old Tim, and that fair
day, and of his father's face, and voice, and words, came back upon him
with a rush, and the tears must have come if he had spoken another word.
"Is there no one here that can read? Papa will be disappointed," said
he, in a little.
No. There seemed to be no one. One old gentleman had not brought his
glasses; another could not read distinctly, because of the loss of his
front teeth; no one there was in the habit of reading aloud.
"Suppose you read it, David? You will do it first-rate," said old Mr
Wood. "We'll manage the rest."
David looked grave. "Go ahead, Davie," said Jem.
"What would papa say?" said David.
"He would be pleased, of course. Why not?" said Jem, promptly.
So when the singing and prayers were over, some one spoke to him again,
and he rose and opened the book with a feeling that he was dreaming, and
that he would wake up by and by, and laugh at it all. It was like a
dream all through. He read very well, or the people thought he did; he
read slowly and earnestly, without looking up, and happily forgot that
Jem was there, or he might have found it difficult to keep from
wondering how he was taking it, and from looking up to see.
But Jem had the same dreamy feeling on him, too. It seemed so strange
to be there without his father, and to be listening to Davie's voice;
and nothing was farther from his mind than that there was anything
amusing in it all. For sitting there, with his head leaning on his
hands, a very terrible thought came to Jem. What if he were never to
hear his father's voice in this place again? What if he were never to
be well?--what if he were going to die!
He was angry with himself in a minute. It was a very foolish thought,
he said; wrong even, it seemed to him. Nothing was going to happen to
his father. He was not very ill. He would be all right again in a day
or two. Jem was indignant with himself because of his thoughts; and
roused himself, and by and by began to take notice how attentively all
the people were listening, and thought how he would tell them all about
it at home, and how pleased his father and mother would be. He did not
try to listen, himself, but mused on from one thing to another, till he
quite forgot his painful thoughts, and in a little the book was closed
and David sat down.
They hurried away as quickly as they could, but not before they had to
repeat over and over again to the many who crowded round them to
inquire, that their father was not ill, at least not worse than he had
been, only he had taken cold and was hoarse and not able to speak--that
was all.
But the thought that perhaps it might not be all, lay heavy on their
hearts all the way home, and made their drive a silent one. It never
came into Jem's mind to banter Davie about the new dignity of his office
as reader, as at first he had intended to do, or, indeed, to say
anything at all, till they were nearly home. As for David, he was going
over and over the very same things that had filled his mind when he
drove his father from old Tim's funeral--"A good soldier of Jesus
Christ," and all that was implied in the name, and his father's words
about "the enrolling of one's name;" and he said to himself that he
would give a great deal to be sure that his name was enrolled,
forgetting that the whole world could not be enough to buy what God had
promised to him freely--a name and a place among His people.
"I hope we shall find papa better," said Jem, as old Don took his usual
energetic start on the hill near the bridge.
"Oh! he is sure to be better," said David. But he did not feel at all
sure of it, and he could not force himself to do anything for old Don's
comfort till he should see what was going on in the house. The glimpse
he got when he went in was re-assuring. Violet was laying the table for
tea, and singing softly to herself as she went through the house. His
father and mother were in the sitting-room with the rest of the
children, and they were both smiling at one of little Polly's wise
speeches as he went in.
"Well, Davie, you are home again safely," said his mother.
"All right, mamma. I will tell you all about it in a minute," said
David. "All right," he repeated, as he went out again to Jem, lifting a
load from his heart, and from his own, too, with the word.
But was it really "all right?" Their father's face said it plainly,
they thought, when they went in, and their mother's face said it, too,
with a difference. A weight was lifted from Jem's heart, and his
spirits rose to such a happy pitch that, Sunday as it was, and in his
father's presence, he could hardly keep himself within quiet bounds, as
he told them about the afternoon, and how David had read so well, and
what all the people had said. David's heart was lightened, too, but he
watched the look on his mother's face, and noticed that she hardly spoke
a word--not even to check Jem, when the laughter of the children and
Letty grew too frequent, and a little noisy, as they sat together before
the lamp was lighted.
"It is all right, I hope," said he, a little doubtfully. "It would be
all right for papa, whichever way it were to end--and for mamma, too,--
in one sense--and for all of us," added he, with a vague idea of the
propriety of submission to God's will under any circumstances. "But
papa is not worse--I think he is not worse, and it will be all right by
and by when summer comes again." But he still watched his mother's
face, and waited anxiously for her word to confirm his hope.
It _was_ all right, because nothing which is God's will can be otherwise
to those who put their trust in Him. But it was not all right in the
sense that David was determined to hope. Though he found them sitting
so calmly there when he came home that night, and though the evening
passed so peacefully away, with the children singing and reading as
usual, and the father and mother taking interest in it all, they had
experienced a great shock while the boys were away.
Gradually, but very plainly, the doctor had for the first time spoken of
danger. Absolute rest for the next three months could alone avert it.
The evidence of disease was not very decided, but the utter prostration
of the whole system, was, in a sense, worse than positive disease. To
be attacked with serious illness now, or even to be over-fatigued might
be fatal to him.
It was not Dr Gore who spoke in this way, but a friend of his who was
visiting him, and whom he had brought to see his patient. He was a
friend of the minister, too, and deeply interested in his case, and so
spoke plainly. Though Dr Gore regretted the abruptness of his friend's
communication, and would fain have softened it for their sakes, he could
not dissent from it. But both spoke of ultimate recovery provided three
months of rest--absolute rest, as far as public duty was concerned, were
secured. Or it would be better still, if, for the three trying months
that were before him, he could go away to a milder climate, or even if
he could get any decided change, provided he could have rest with it.
The husband and wife listened in silence, at the first moment not
without a feeling of dismay. To go away for a change was utterly
impossible, they put that thought from them at once. To stay at home in
perfect rest, seemed almost impossible, too. They looked at one another
in silence. What could be said?
"We will put it all out of our thoughts for to-day, love," said Mr
Inglis, in his painful whisper, when they were left alone. "At least we
will not speak of it to one another. We must not distrust His loving
care of us, dear, even now."
They did not speak of it to one another, but each apart spoke of it to
Him who hears no sorrowful cry of his children unmoved. He did not lift
the cloud that gloomed so darkly over them. He did not by a sudden
light from Heaven show them a way by which they were to be led out of
the darkness, but in it He made them to feel His presence. "Fear not,
for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God!" and lo! "the
darkness was light about them!"
So when the boys came home the father's face said plainly what both
heart and lip could also say, "It is all right." And the mother's said
it, too, with a difference.
Of course, all that the doctors had said was not told to the children.
Indeed the father and mother did not speak much about it to each other
for a good many days. Mr Inglis rested, and in a few days called
himself nearly well again, and but for the doctor's absolute
prohibition, would have betaken himself to his parish work as usual. It
was not easy for him to submit to inactivity, for many reasons that need
not be told, and when the first Sabbath of enforced silence came round,
it found him in sore trouble, _knowing_, indeed, where to betake
himself, but _feeling_ the refuge very far away.
That night he first spoke to David of the danger that threatened him.
They were sitting together in the twilight. The mother and the rest
were down-stairs at the usual Sunday reading and singing, which the
father had not felt quite able to bear, and now and then the sound of
their voices came up to break the stillness that had fallen on these
two. David had been reading, but the light had failed him, and he sat
very quiet, thinking that his father had fallen asleep. But he had not.
"Davie," said he, at last, "what do you think is the very hardest duty
that a soldier may be called to do?"
David was silent a minute, partly from surprise at the question, and
partly because he had been thinking of all that his father had been
suffering on that sorrowful silent day, and he was not quite sure
whether he could find a voice to say anything. For at morning worship,
the father had quite broken down, and the children had been awed and
startled by the sight of his sudden tears. All day long David had
thought about it, and sitting there beside him his heart had filled full
of love and reverent sympathy, which he never could have spoken, even if
it had come into his mind to try. But when his father asked him that
question, he answered, after a little pause:
"Not the fighting, papa, and not the marching. I think perhaps the very
hardest thing would be to stand aside and wait, while the battle is
going on."
"Ay, lad! you are right there," said his father, with a sigh. "Though
why you should look on it in that way, I do not quite see."
"I was thinking of you, papa," said David, very softly; and in a little
he added: "This has been a very sad day to you, papa."
"And I have not been giving you a lesson of trust and cheerful
obedience, I am afraid. Yes, this has been a sad, silent day, Davie,
lad. But the worst is over. I trust the worst is over now."
David answered nothing to this, but came closer, and leaned over the arm
of the sofa on which his father lay, and by and by his father said:
"My boy, it is a grand thing to be a soldier of Jesus Christ, willing
and obedient. And whether it is marching or fighting, or only waiting,
our Commander cannot make a mistake. It ought to content us to know
that, Davie, lad."
"Yes, papa," said David.
"Yes," added his father, in a little. "It is a wonderful thing to
belong to the great army of the Lord. There is nothing else worth a
thought in comparison with that. It is to fight for Right against
Wrong, for Christ and the souls of men, against the Devil--with the
world for a battle ground, with weapons `mighty through God to the
pulling down of strongholds'--under a Leader Divine, invincible, and
with victory sure. What is there beyond this? What is there besides?"
He was silent, but David said nothing, and in a little while he went on
again:
"But we are poor creatures, Davie, for all that. We grow weary with our
marching; turned aside from our chosen paths, we stumble and are
dismayed, as though defeat had overtaken us; we sit athirst beside our
broken cisterns, and sicken in prisons of our own making, believing
ourselves forgotten. And all the time, our Leader, looking on, has
patience with us--loves us even, holds us up, and leads us safe through
all, and gives us the victory at the end. `Thanks be to God who giveth
us the victory!'" said Mr Inglis, and in a minute he repeated the words
again.
Then he lay still for a long time, so long that it grew dark, except for
the light of the new moon, and David, kneeling at the head of the sofa,
never moved, thinking that his father slumbered now, or had forgotten
him. But by and by he spoke again:
"When I was young, just beginning the conflict, I remember saying to
myself, if God will give me twenty years in which to fight His battles,
I will be content. The twenty years are almost over now. Ah! how
little I have gained for Him from the enemy! Yet I may have to lay down
my armour now, just as you are ready to put it on, Davie, my son."
"Papa! I am not worthy--" said David, with a sob.
"Worthy? No. It is a gift He will give you--as the crown and the palm
of the worthiest will be His free gift at last. Not worthy, lad, but
willing, I trust."
"Papa--I cannot tell. I am afraid--"
He drew nearer, kneeling still, and laid his face upon his father's
shoulder.
"Of what are you afraid, Davie? There is nothing you need fear, except
delay. You cannot come to Him too soon. David, when you were the child
of an hour only, I gave you up to God to be His always. I asked Him to
make you a special messenger of His to sinful men. His minister. That
may be if He wills. I cannot tell. But I do know that He will that you
should be one of His `good soldiers.'"
There was a long silence, for it tired him to speak, and David said
nothing. By and by his father said:
"How can I leave your mother to your care, unless I know you safe among
those whom God guides? But you must give yourself to Him. Your mother
will need you, my boy, but you may fight well the battles of the Lord,
even while working with your hands for daily bread. And for the rest,
the way will open before you. I am not afraid."
"Papa," said David, raising himself up to look into his father's face,
"why are you saying all this to me to-night?"
"I am saying it to you because you are your mother's first-born son, and
must be her staff and stay always. And to-night is a good time to say
it."
"But, papa," said the boy with difficulty, "it is not because you think
you are going to die? Does mamma know?"
"I do not know, my son. Death has seemed very near to me to-day. And
it has been often in your mother's thoughts of late, I do not doubt. My
boy! it is a solemn thing to feel that death may be drawing near. But I
am not afraid. I think I have no cause to be afraid."
He raised himself up and looked into the boy's face with a smile, as he
repeated:
"David--I have no cause to fear--since Jesus died."
"No, papa," said David, faintly. "But mamma--and--all of us."
"Yes, it will be sad to leave you, and it will be sad for you to be
left. But I am not afraid. `Leave thy fatherless children; I will
preserve them alive, and let thy widow trust in me.' He has said it,
and He will bring it to pass. The promise is more to me, to-night, than
untold wealth could be. And Davie, I leave them to your care. You must
take my place with them, and comfort your mother, and care for your
brothers and sisters. And David you must be a better soldier than I
have ever been."
David threw himself forward with a cry.
"Oh papa! how can I? how can I? I am afraid, and I do not even know
that my name is enrolled, and that is the very first--"
"My boy! But you may know. Have you ever given yourself to our great
leader? Have you asked him to enrol your name? Ask Him now. Do not I
love you? His love is greater far than mine!"
There had been moments during that day when the Lord had seemed very far
away from His servant, but he felt Him to be very near Him now, as he
poured out his heart in prayer for his son. He did not use many words,
and they were faintly and feebly uttered, but who shall doubt but they
reached the ear of the Lord waiting to hear and answer. But they
brought no comfort to David that night. Indeed he hardly heard them.
There was only room in his heart for one thought. "Death may be drawing
near!" his father had said, and beyond that he could not look. It was
too terrible to believe. He would not believe it. He would not have it
so.
By and by when there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he
slipped unseen out of the room, and then out of the house, and seeking
some place where he might be alone, he went up into the loft above old
Don's crib, and lay down upon the hay, and wept and sobbed his heart out
there. He prayed, too, asking again for the blessing which his father
had asked for him; and for his father's life. He prayed earnestly, with
strong crying and tears; but in his heart he knew that he cared more for
his father's life and health than for the better blessing, and though he
wept all his tears out, he arose uncomforted. The house was still and
dark when he went in. His mother had thought that he had gone to bed,
and Jem that he was sitting in the study as he often did, and he was
fast asleep when David lay down beside him, and no one knew the pain and
dread that was in his heart that night.
But when he rose in the morning, and went down-stairs, and heard the
cheerful noise of the children, and saw his mother going about her work
as she always did, all that had happened last night seemed to him like a
dream. By and by his father came among them, no graver than in other
days, and quite as well as he had been for a long time, and everything
went on as usual all day, and for a good many days. Nobody seemed
afraid. His mother was watchful, and perhaps a little more silent than
usual, but that was all. As for his father, the worst must have been
past that night, as he had said, for there was no cloud over him now.
He was cheerful always--even merry, sometimes, when he amused himself
with little Polly and the rest. He was very gentle with them all, more
so than usual, perhaps, and David noticed that he had Violet and Jem
alone with him in the study now and then. Once when this happened with
Jem, David did not see him again all day, and afterwards--a long time
afterwards--Jem told him that he had spent that afternoon in the
hay-loft above old Don's crib.
At such times he used to wonder whether their father spoke to them as he
had spoken to him that night, when he told him how "Death might be
drawing near." But they never spoke to one another about it. And,
indeed, it was not difficult during those cheerful quiet days, to put
such thoughts out of their minds. The people came and went, looking
grave sometimes, but not as though they had any particular cause for
fear. The minister went out almost every fine day with David or his
mother, or with Jem if it was Saturday, for the children were growing
almost jealous of one another, as to opportunities for doing things for
papa, and Jem must have his turn, too.
How kind all the people were! Surely there never was anything like it
before, the children thought. Some among them whom they had not much
liked, and some whom they had hardly known, came out in a wonderful way
with kind words and kinder deeds, and if kindness and thoughtfulness,
and love that was almost reverence, would have made him well, he would
soon have been in his old place among them again. His place on Sunday
was supplied as often as possible from abroad, and when it could not be,
the people managed as well as they could, and that was better than
usual, for all hearts were softened and touched by the sorrow that had
come on them as a people, and nothing was allowed to trouble or annoy
the minister that could be prevented by them. They would have liked him
to go away as the doctor had advised, and the means would have been
provided to accomplish it, but the minister would not hear of being sent
away. He felt, he said, that he would have a better chance for recovery
at home. Not that there was any chance in that, according to his
thought. It was all ordered, and it would all be well, whichever way it
was to end, and he was best and happiest at home.
And so the time passed on, and then, and afterwards, no one ever thought
or spoke of these days but as happy days. And yet, in the secret heart
of every one of them, of the mother and the children, and of the kind
people that came and went, there was a half-conscious waiting for
something that was drawing near. It was a hope, sometimes, and
sometimes it was a dread. The neighbours put it into words, and the
hopeful spoke of returning health and strength, and of the lessons of
faith and love they should learn by and by, through the experience of
the minister in the sick room; and those who were not hopeful, spoke of
other lessons they might have to learn through other means. But in the
house they only waited, speaking no word of what the end might be.
At last there came a day, when no words were needed, to tell what
messenger of the King was on his way. The hushed voices of the
children, the silence in the house, told it too plainly. The laboured
breathing of the sick man, the feverish hand, the wandering eye, were
visible tokens that death was drawing near. The change came suddenly.
They were not prepared for it, they said. But there are some things for
which we cannot make ourselves ready, till we feel ourselves shuddering
under the blow.
Ah! well. He was ready, and the rest mattered little. Even the mother
said that to herself and to him, with the sobbing of their children in
her ears. She did not sob nor cry out in her pain, but kept her face
calm and smiling for him till the very last. And because, with his
laboured breathing, and the pain which held him fast, he could not say
to her that which was in his heart, she said it all to him--how they had
loved one another, and how God had cared for them always, and how happy
they had been, and how, even in the parting that was before them, God's
time was best, and she was not afraid.
And she was _not_ afraid! Looking into those triumphant eyes, glad with
the brightness of something that she could not see, how could she be
afraid? "For neither life nor death, nor principalities nor powers, nor
things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other
creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in
Christ Jesus our Lord," she murmured, comforting him with her words. He
was dying! He was leaving her and their children alone, with God's
promise between them and poverty, and nothing else. Nothing else! Is
not that enough? Think of it! God's promise!
"I am not afraid!" She said the words over and over again. "Why should
I be afraid? There are things far worse than poverty to bear. `Our
bread shall be given us, and our water sure.' I might be afraid for our
children without you, had they the temptations of wealth to struggle
with. Their father's memory will be better to them than lands or gold.
Put it all out of your thoughts, dear love. I am not afraid."
Afterwards the doubt might come--the care, the anxiety, the painful
reckoning of ways and means, to her who knew that the roof that covered
them and the daily bread of her children, depended on the dear life now
ebbing so fast away. But now, seeing--not Heaven's light, indeed, but
the reflection of its glory on his face, she no more feared life than he
feared death, now drawing so near. The children came in, at times, and
looked with sad, appealing eyes from one face to the other to find
comfort, and seeing her so sweet and calm and strong, went out to
whisper to one another that mamma was not afraid. All through these
last days of suffering the dying father never heard the voice of
weeping, or saw a token of fear or pain. Just once, at the very first,
seeing the sign of the coming change on his father's face, David's heart
failed him, and he leaned, for a moment, faint and sick upon his
mother's shoulder. But it never happened again till the end was near.
Seeing his mother, he grew calm and strong, trying to stand firm in this
time or trouble that she might have him to lean on when the time of
weakness should come. The others came and went, but David never left
his mother's side. And she watched and waited, and took needful rest
that she might keep calm and strong to the very end; and the dying eyes
never rested on her face but they read there, "God is good, and I am not
afraid."
And so the time wore on till the last night came. They did not know it
was the last night; and the mother lay down within call, for an hour or
two, and David watched alone. Will he ever forget those hours, so awful
yet so sweet?
"It is `the last evening,' Davie, lad!" said his father, in gasps,
between his hard-drawn breaths. "Strong, but not invincible! Say
something to me, dear."
"`He, also, Himself likewise took part of the same, that through death
He might destroy him that hath the power of death--.'" David paused.
"Go on, dear," said his father.
"`And deliver them who through fear of death were all their life-time
subject to bondage.'"
"I am not--afraid! Tell me more."
"`I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the
faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness,
which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day, and not
to me only, but to all them also that love His appearing.'"
"His gift, dear boy, His gift! Say something more."
"`In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved
us--'" went on David, but he had no power to add another word, and his
father murmured on:
"Loved us! Wonderful!--wonderful! And gave--Himself--for us."
And then he seemed to slumber for awhile, and when he awoke David was
not sure that he knew him, for his mind seemed wandering, and he spoke
as if he were addressing many people, lifting his hand now and then as
if to give emphasis to his words. But his utterance was laboured and
difficult, and David only caught a word here and there. "A good
fight"--"the whole armour"--"more than conquerors." Once he said,
suddenly:
"Are you one of them, Davie? And are you to stand in my place and take
up the weapons that I must lay down?"
David felt that he knew Him then, and he answered:
"Papa, with God's help, I will."
And then there came over his father's face a smile, oh! so radiant and
so sweet, and he said:
"Kiss me, Davie!" And then he murmured a word or two--"Thanks!" and
"Victory!" and these were the very last words that David heard his
father utter; for, when he raised himself up again, his mother was
beside him, and the look on her face, made bright to meet the dying
eyes, was more than he could bear.
"Lie down a little, Davie. You are quite worn out," said she, softly,
soothing him with hand and voice.
But he could not go away. He sat down on the floor, and laid his face
on the pillow of little Mary's deserted cot, and by and by his mother
came and covered him with a shawl, and he must have fallen asleep, for
when he looked up again there were others in the room, and his mother's
hand was laid on his father's closed eyes.
Of the awe and stillness that filled the house for the next three days
of waiting, few words need be spoken.
"I must have three days for my husband, and then all my life shall be
for my children," said their mother. "Davie, you and Letty must help
one another and comfort the little ones."
So for the most part she was left alone, and David and Letty did what
they could to comfort the rest, through that sorrowful time. The
neighbours were very kind. They would have taken the little ones away
for awhile, but they did not want to go, and David and Violet said to
one another it was right that even the little ones should have these
days to remember afterwards.
How long the days of waiting seemed! Sudden bursts of crying from the
little ones broke now and then the stillness too heavy to be borne, and
even Violet sometimes gave way to bitter weeping. But they thought of
their mother, and comforted one another as well as they could; and David
stood between her closed door and all that could disturb her in her
sorrow, with a patient quiet at which they all wondered. Just once it
failed him. Some one came, with a trailing mass of black garments,
which it was thought necessary for her to see, and Violet said so to her
brother, very gently, and with many tears. But David threw up his hands
with a cry.
"What does it matter, Letty? What can mamma care for all that now? She
shall not be troubled."
And she was not. Even Miss Bethia could not bring herself to put aside
the words of the boy who lay sobbing in the dark, outside his mother's
door.
"He's right," said she. "It don't matter the least in the world. There
don't anything seem to matter much. She sha'n't be worried. Let it
go," said Miss Bethia, with a break in her sharp voice. "It'll fit, I
dare say, well enough--and if it don't, you can fix it afterwards. Let
it go now."
But David came down, humble and sorry, in a little while.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Bethia," said he. "I don't suppose mamma would
have cared, and you might have gone in. Only--" His voice failed him.
"Don't worry a mite about it," said Miss Bethia, with unwonted
gentleness. "It don't matter--and it is to you your mother must look
now."
But this was more than David could bear. Shaking himself free from her
detaining hand, he rushed away out of sight--out of the house--to the
hay-loft, the only place where he could hope to be alone. And he was
not alone there; for the first thing he heard when the sound of his own
sobbing would let him hear anything, was the voice of some one crying by
his side.
"Is it you, Jem?" asked he, softly.
"Yes, Davie."
And though they lay there a long time in the darkness, they did not
speak another word till they went into the house again.
But there is no use dwelling on all these sorrowful days. The last one
came, and they all went to the church together, and then to the grave.
Standing on the withered grass, from which the spring sunshine was
beginning to melt the winter snow, they listened to the saddest sound
that can fall on children's ears, the fall of the clods on their
father's coffin-lid, and then they went back to the empty house to begin
life all over again without their father's care.