“He is passing away!” and turned aside. But his mother, nevertheless, with a deft and practised movement, took the boy into her own arms. His long wavy hair had got tangled. She smoothed it, and looked into his face.

“No, I can’t⁠ ⁠…” she muttered, and quickly but carefully handed him back to the nurse, and left the room.

It was the second week of the boy’s illness, and all that time his mother had wavered between despair and hope. During all that time she had not slept two hours a day. Several times each day she had gone to her bedroom, and, standing before the large icon of the Saviour, in its gold-embossed covering, had prayed God to save her boy. The dark-faced Saviour held in his small dark hand a gilt book, on which was written in black enamel: “Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”