THE WIDOW'S DEATH.
"BLESSED are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Little Milly
was kneeling at the widow's bedside repeating this verse, as she did
every night.
"Why do I say that so often?" she asked, as she arose from her knees
and Bob lifted her into bed.
"Because I think Milly needs it," said the widow.
"But I don't go into tempers now," said the child. "I'm trying to be
meek and lowly, like Jesus, that I may go and see my papa."
It was a long time since Milly had mentioned this name, and all thought
it had faded from her memory.
It brought the tears to the widow's eyes as she heard it.
"What makes you cry?" asked Milly. "You said one day I should see papa.
Won't Jesus take me to see him soon?"
"Perhaps He will, dear," replied the widow, kissing the little face.
And she sighed as she looked at the fragile little figure, and thought
how very likely it was that she should be called upon to part with this
tender blossom that had become so very dear to her, and the brightness
and sunshine of their home. And try as she would, she could not keep
back her tears at the thought of parting with her, even though it was
to become like the angels she was so fond of talking about.
It was a favorite subject with Milly to say she would be an angel and
take care of somebody. Sometimes it was Bob, or Jack, and sometimes the
widow herself. And these talks of the child always made her think she
would be early taken to another world.
But the widow never glanced at the possibility of its being her own
death that would thus separate them. She had been unable to walk for
several years, but her general health was good, and she looked forward
to spending some years yet on the low truckle bed, and do what she
could for the comfort of her two boys.
She was saying this to a neighbor one day—it was not often they had
a visit from any one, for the nearest cottage was some distance from
their own, and so it was a treat for the widow to have some one to talk
to. The woman looked at her keenly as she spoke, and asked if she felt
quite well.
"I have been until now, but I can't say that I feel too well to-day,
though it's nothing to complain of, only a little pain here," and she
laid her hand upon her heart.
"You'd better let one of the boys get you some medicine, if it don't
get better," said her friend.
The widow smiled. She had little faith in medicine, and did not believe
it would do her any good now.
"I'll get some herb-tea made to-morrow," she said, and resolved to pay
no more heed to the troublesome pain in her side.
But something in her appearance made her friend far less easy about the
matter. And as she was leaving, she contrived to draw Jack on one side
and tell him her fears concerning his mother.
The boy started, and looked towards the bed through the open doorway.
"Do you think she's ill?" he said anxiously.
"Hush! Don't let her hear what we are talking about. Yes, I am afraid
she is ill, or going to be ill. If she does not seem better to-morrow,
if she still has the pain in her side, send Bob down for me, and I'll
come up and persuade her to have the doctor. Mind you send early," she
added, as she turned up the little path leading from the sea-shore to
the village.
Jack felt anxious and alarmed as the woman left him. But when he went
back to the cottage and saw his mother's placid face, looking perhaps a
trifle paler, but otherwise just the same as usual, his fears subsided,
and he felt sure it was all a mistake—his mother was not going to be
ill.
The boy was right too. The widow was not going to be ill, she was going
to that land where there is neither sickness nor sorrow. She had even
reached the borders of it, although she knew it not.
She was unusually cheerful that night, the pain in her side was better,
she said, and she felt almost well enough to get up.
As a great treat, Milly was to sit up to supper that night, and, being
very wakeful, she remained up until the usual chapter was read and
prayer had been offered up by the widow.
Earnestly and affectionately did she commend each to the care of their
Heavenly Father, making special mention of little Milly, that, if
spared, she might be a blessing and a help to many. And then, with an
affectionate farewell, she bade each go to bed.
All thought of what he had heard concerning his mother's illness had
passed from Jack's mind, and his last thought before going to sleep was
of the pleasant, happy evening they had spent, and his dreams were of a
happy home-circle, in which his father's place was not empty.
He was aroused the next morning by Milly laying her little hand on his
face. The circumstance did not alarm him, for the child usually awoke
early, and often came to call them.
But when she said, "Wake up, Jack, and light the fire, mother's so
cold," an instant fear seized the boy's heart.
Springing out of bed, he ran into the adjoining room, and one glance at
the little bed confirmed his worst fears. He did not scream or cry out,
but a groan of anguish burst from his heart; and Bob, whom Milly had
likewise awakened, came hurrying in after him.
"What is it? Is mother ill?" he asked, as he saw his brother throw the
sheet over her face.
Jack shook his head. "Make haste and get your things on, and run down
for Mrs. Ship," he said.
Bob looked from his brother to the bed. "Is it too late to fetch the
doctor?" he asked.
Jack nodded. "Don't let Milly come in here," he said, as the little
girl was about to clamber up on the bed again.
Bob took her in his arms and went back to their little sleeping-room.
But then all his firmness gave way, and throwing himself on the bed, he
burst into an irrepressible wail of anguish.
"What's a-matter, Bob? Ain't mother well? She wants her breakfast, I
think," said Milly.
Bob tried to choke back his tears for the sake of the child. "Mother
won't want any more breakfasts, Milly," he said; "she's gone to
heaven—gone to see Jesus!"
The little girl sat down, her hands clasped in her lap. "She's gone to
be an angel, then, instead of me?" she said.
"No, not instead of you, Milly. You've been an angel to us here, I'm
sure, and so you will be!" But there he stopped.
What would become of the child now his mother had gone? She was far too
young to be left in the cottage alone while they were away at work,
even if they could have attended to her wants while they were at home.
But he could not stay to think of this now; he had to hurry away to
bring their neighbor from the village. And while he was gone, Jack
dressed Milly, and did what he could to put the house in order.
A doctor came with the woman and Bob, but it was useless to try to
restore animation. She must have been dead some hours, he said; he
thought it probable that she had passed away in her sleep, so calm and
peaceful did she look in her death-slumber.
What was to become of Milly, was of course the first question that
presented itself to the mind of Mrs. Ship. She offered the boys a
home with her, but she could not take Milly, she said. And so it was
resolved that Bob should take her up to Dr. Mansfield's to ask the
advice of the housekeeper on the subject.
Mrs. Ship thought it would be best to do this without delay, and urged
Bob to do it at once. But the boy had a sad foreboding that poor Milly
would be sent to the workhouse, and wanted to postpone it until after
the funeral.
"You won't forget what mother told you about being meek and gentle, and
loving Jesus?" said Bob, as he slowly led the little girl towards the
doctor's house.
"No, I won't forget," said Milly. "But where are we going to, Bob?
Don't you hear me?"
Bob sighed. He almost wished she was lying beside his mother. He loved
the little fair-haired girl, that had taught them so many lessons of
self-control, and he could not bear the thought of her being thrust out
into the rude rough world of the workhouse.
"I don't know where you'll go yet, Milly," he said, speaking as calmly
and steadily as he could; "but you will try to be a good girl—one of
God's messengers wherever you go—won't you?"
The child nodded, and went on with her artless prattle of how she was
going to take care of him when she was a woman, until they reached
the doctor's house, and Bob had rung the bell, which he did with a
trembling hand, greatly fearing that the housekeeper would be angry
with him for bringing Milly against her express command.