She wept holy tears when he suffered, and
when he was delighted her heart beat with pleasure. It was she who taught
him that august prayer which is sacred in its simplicity to childhood. She
is aged now; her wealth of brown hair is white with age's winter, her step
is no longer quick, her eye has lost its lustre, and her hand is shaken
with the palsy of lost vigor. There are wrinkles in her brow and hollows in
the cheeks which were once so lovely that his father would have bartered a
kingdom for them. She is sitting by the side of the tomb waiting for the
mysterious summons which must soon come. Oh, young man, you for whom this
mother has suffered, you for whom she cherishes a love which is priceless
and deathless, you will not hasten her into eternity by an act, or word, or
look, will you? It would kill her to know that you had fallen under sin's
destroying stroke. Sometimes she goes to the portrait of your boyish face
and looks at it; at other times she takes down some worn and faded garment,
that you were wont to wear in those beautiful days of the past, and recalls
how you looked when you wore it; then she goes to the room where you used
to sleep and looks at the cradle in which she so often rocked you to sleep,
and, after all is seen, she returns to her chair--the old easy chair--and
waits to hear tidings of you.
Pages:
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89