“Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask Him.”
“No, no, no! It can’t be. … Doctor! Surely something can be done? Why do neither of you speak?” said a young mother, as with long, firm steps she came out of the nursery, where her three-year-old child, her first and only son, lay dying of water on the brain.
Her husband and the doctor, who had been talking together in subdued tones, became silent. With a deep sigh the husband timidly approached her, and tenderly stroked her dishevelled hair. The doctor stood with bowed head, and his silence and immobility showed the hopelessness of the case.
“What’s to be done?” said the husband. “What’s to be done, dear? …”
“Ah! Don’t … don’t!” cried she; and there was a note of anger or reproach in her voice as she suddenly turned back to the nursery.
Her husband tried to stop her.
“Kitty, don’t go there …”
She glanced at him with large, weary eyes, and, without answering, entered the nursery.
The boy lay in his nurse’s arms, a white pillow under his head. His eyes were open, but he did not see with them; and from his closed lips came bubbles of foam. The nurse sat with stern and solemn mien, looking across him, and did not move when the mother entered. Only when the latter came close to her and put her hand under the pillow to take the child, the nurse said gently: