It may be that your mischievous Frank runs wild
with the swift blood of boyhood, and that the hours are long which wait
his coming. It may be that your heart echoes in silence the mother's
sobs, as she watches his fits of waywardness, and showers upon his very
neglect excess of love.
Danger perhaps creeps upon little, joyous Nelly, which makes you tremble
for her life; the mother's tears are checked that she may not deepen
your grief; and her care guards the little sufferer like a Providence.
The nights hang long and heavy; dull, stifled breathing wakes the
chamber with ominous sound; the mother's eye scarce closes, but rests
with fond sadness upon the little struggling victim of sickness; her
hand rests like an angel touch upon the brow, all beaded with the heats
of fever; the straggling, gray light of morning breaks through the
crevices of the closed blinds,--bringing stir and bustle to the world,
but in your home--lighting only the darkness.
Hope, sinking in the mother's heart, takes hold on Faith in God; and her
prayer, and her placid look of submission,--more than all your
philosophy,--add strength to your faltering courage.
But little Nelly brightens; her faded features take on bloom again; she
knows you; she presses your hand; she draws down your cheek to her
parched lip; she kisses you, and smiles.
Pages:
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239