“You always give your cares to God,” little Harold had said to his father.

That father, on his knees with his head bowed between his hands, and a tempest of agony, of entreaty in his heart, found suddenly that he could not give this care away to God.  For a moment, when the boy had spoken, he had believed that this was possible, but when little Harold had himself spoken so quietly of dying and going to Jesus, the father’s heart rose suddenly in the fiercest rebellion.  No; if it meant the slaying of his first-born he could not so quietly lay it in the hands of God and say, “Thy will be done.”  This unearthly man, who had always lived with a kind of heaven-sent radiance round his path, found himself suddenly human after all.  His earthly arms clung tightly round the earthly form of his pretty little lad and would not unclasp themselves.  It was to this man who had so serenely and for many years walked in the sunshine of God’s presence, with nothing to hide his glory from his eyes, as though he had come up to a high, a blank, an utterly impenetrable wall, which shut away all the divine radiance.  He could neither climb this wall, nor could he see one glimpse of God at the dark side where he found himself.  In an agony this brave heart tried to pray, but his voice would not rise above his chamber, would not indeed even ascend to his lips.  He found himself suddenly voiceless and dumb, dead despair stealing over him.  He did not, however, rise from his knees, and in this position his wife found him when, late that night, she came up to bed.  She had been crying so hard and so long that by very force of those tears her heart was lighter, and her husband, when he raised his eyes, hollow from the terrible struggle within, to her face, looked now the most miserable of the two.  The mute appeal in his eyes smote on the wife’s loving heart, instantly she came over and knelt by his side.

“You must come to bed, Angus dear.  I have arranged with Mr. Hinton, and he will sit up with our little lad for the next few hours.”

“I could not sleep, Lottie,” answered the husband.  “God is coming to take away our child and I can’t say, ‘Thy will be done.’”

“You can’t!” repeated the wife, and now her lips fell apart and she gazed at her husband.

“No Lottie; you called God cruel downstairs, and now He looks cruel to me.  I can’t give Him my first-born.  I can’t say ‘Thy will be done;’ but oh!” continued the wretched man, “this is horrible, this is blasphemous.  Oh! has God indeed forsaken me?”

“No, no, no!” suddenly almost shrieked the wife; “no, no!” she repeated; and now she had flung her arms round her husband and was straining him to her heart.  “Oh, my darling! my beloved! you were never, never, never, so near to me, so dear to me, as now.  God does not want you to say that, Angus.  Angus, it is not God’s will that our child should die, it is Satan’s will, not God’s.  God is love, and it can’t be love to torture us, and tear our darling away from us like that.  The will of God is righteousness, and love, and happiness; not darkness, and death, and misery.  Oh, Angus! let us both kneel here and say, ‘Thy will be done,’ for I believe the will of God will be to save the child.”

A great faith had suddenly come to this woman.  She lifted her voice, and a torrent of eloquent words, of passionate utterances, rent the air and went up to God from that little room, and the husband stole his hand into the wife’s as she prayed.  After this they both slept, and Lottie’s heart was lighter than it had ever been in all her life before.

The next morning this lightness, almost gayety of heart, was still there.  For the time she had really changed places with her husband; for, believing that the end would be good, she felt strong to endure.

Mr. and Mrs. Home went downstairs to find Hinton regarding them anxiously.  He had not spent a long night with the sick child without gathering very clearly how imminent was the peril still hanging over the family.  Harold’s night had been a wretched one, and he was weaker this morning.  Hinton felt that a great deal more must be done to restore Harold to health; but he had not heard what Dr. Watson had said, and was therefore as yet in the dark and much puzzled how best to act.  Seeing the mother’s face serene, almost calm, as she poured out the tea, and the father’s clouded over, he judged both wrongly.

“She is deceived,” he said of the one.  “He knows,” he said of the other.  Had he, however, reversed the positions it would have been nearer the truth.

He went away with a thousand schemes in his head.  He would visit the doctor.  He would ­could he ­might he, risk a visit to Charlotte?  He was resolved that in some way he must save the boy; but it was not reserved for his hand to do the good deed on this occasion.  After breakfast he went out, and Mr. Home, feeling almost like a dead man, hurried off to the daily service.

For a brief moment Charlotte was alone.  The instant she found herself so, she went straight down on her knees, and with eyes and heart raised to heaven, said, aloud and fervently, ­

“Thy holy, loving, righteous Will be done.”

Then she got up and went to her little son.  In the course of the morning the boy said to his mother, ­

“How much I should like to see that pretty lady.”

“It would not be safe for her to come to you, my darling,” said Mrs. Home.  “You are not yet quite free from infection, and if you saw her now she might get ill.  You would not harm your pretty lady, Harold?”

“No, indeed, mother, not for worlds.  But if I can’t see her,” he added, “may I have her toys to play with?”

The mother fetched them and laid them on the bed.

“And now give me what was in the brown paper parcels, mother.  The dear, dear, dainty clothes!  Oh! didn’t our baby look just lovely in his velvet frock?  Please, mother, may I see those pretty things once again?”

Mrs. Home could not refuse.  The baby’s pelisse, Daisy’s frock, and Harold’s own hat were placed by his side.  He took up the hat with a great sigh of admiration.  It was of dark purple plush, with a plume of ostrich feathers.

“May I put it on, mother?” asked the little lad.

He did so, then asked for a glass to look at himself.

“Ah?” he said, half crying, half frightened at his wasted pale little face under this load of finery, “I don’t like it now.  My pretty, pretty lady’s hat is much too big for me now.  I can’t wear it.  Oh! mother, wouldn’t she be disappointed?”

“She shan’t be,” said the mother, “for I will draw in the lining, and then it will fit you as well as possible.”

“But oh! mother, do be careful.  I saw her put in a nice little bit of soft paper; I saw her put it under the lining my own self.  You will crush that bit of paper if you aren’t careful, mother.”

The mother did not much heed the little eager voice, she drew in a cord which ran round the lining, then again placed the hat on Harold’s head.

“Now it fits, darling,” she said.

“But I think the bit of paper is injured,” persisted the boy.  “How funny I should never have thought of it until now.  I’ll take it out, mother, and you can put it by with the other things.”

The little fingers poked under the lining and drew out something thin and neatly folded.

“Look, look, mother!” he said excitedly; “there’s writing.  Read it, mother; read what she said.”

Mrs. Home read, ­

     “For Harold, with his lady’s love.”

She turned the paper.  There, staring her in the face, lay a fresh, crisp Bank of England note for fifty pounds.