EVEN yet the doctor had said no word of discouragement. And Judge Burnham had, though he had ceased laughing at Ruth fears, sharply controverted them. And she?—she felt she would have stricken down any one who had breathed a word of danger. It was fearful enough to feel it; let no one dare to speak it. Once when Judge Burnham—filled with pity for her loneliness during the hours when he was obliged to be away—suggested recalling the travellers, she turned toward him fiercely:

“Why?” she asked him; “what do you mean? Are you keeping something from me? Does the Doctor tell you what he does not me? Judge Burnham, I will never forgive you if you deceive me.”

“Why, no,” he said, “Ruth, no; why will you be so unreasonable? The Doctor says he sees no ground as yet for special anxiety. He says to me just what he says to you. No one thinks of deception. I only felt that it would be less lonely with the girls at home; and Susan would be a comfort.”

“Comfort!” she said, still speaking sharply. “Why have I need of comfort? I have my baby, and I can take care of him; and as for loneliness, the house is full from morning till night. One would think people never heard of a sick child before. They are always sick when teething. Why should we be so unreasonably frightened?”

And Judge Burnham turned away sighing, patient with his wife, for he saw that she was too wildly frightened to talk or act like a reasonable being.

Among all the comers and goers there was one who did not come. That was Mrs. Judge Erskine. Not that she would not have willingly been there both day and night; but poor Ruth, who had never recovered in the least from her early discomfort concerning the woman, in this time of her frenzy felt the dislike increasing to almost hatred. She tortured herself at times with imagining the exclamations that the odious grandmother would make over the change in her darling, until at last it grew to be almost an insanity to her; and she fiercely ordered that no word of any sort should be taken to her home. “Father shall not be needlessly troubled,” was outward reason enough, for Judge Erskine was not strong this season; so, beyond the knowledge that the child was not very well, was teething, and kept Ruth closely at home, the two people left in the old Erskine homestead together knew nothing.

Slowly yet surely, the Shepherd was reaching after his stray sheep. By degrees her mood and her prayers changed; they lost their fierceness, but not one whit of their will-power. She began to feel herself in the hands of God. She gave up her defiance, and came to him as a suppliant. She sat alone in the shadows of a long night of watching, and looked over her life, and saw plainly her mistakes, her wanderings, her sins. Then she fell on her knees beside that crib, one watching eye and listening ear intent on every change of expression or breathing in the darling, and then and there she proceeded to make terms with God. If he would only give her back her darling, her boy, she would live, oh such a different life!—a life of entire consecration. All she had, and was, and hoped to be, her husband, her baby—everything should be consecrated, be held second to his love. Long she knelt there praying, but no answering voice spoke peace to her heart. And the struggle, though changed in its form, went on and on by degrees, and Ruth with her long preoccupied heart was very slow to learn the lesson. She was made to understand that God had never promised to compromise with his own, never promised to hear a prayer which began with an “if.” Entire consecration meant all the ifs thrown down at the feet of the Lord, for him to control as he would. Solemnly his voice spoke to her heart, spoke as plainly as though the sound of it had echoed in the silent room: “And if I take your darling into my arms of infinite love, and shield him for you in heaven, what then?” And Ruth realized with a shudder that then, her heart said it would only be infinite mercy that could keep her from hating God! But when she realized this solemn, this awful truth, which proved rebellion in the heart that had long professed allegiance, God be thanked that she did not get up from her kneeling and go away again with the burden. She knelt still, and, with the solemn light of the All-seeing Eye flashing down into her soul, she confessed it all—her rebellion, her selfish determination to hold her treasure whether God would or not, her selfish desire to compromise, her cowardly, pitiful subterfuge of promising him that which was already his by right, if he would submit to her plans. The long, sad, sinful story was laid bare before him, and then her torn heart said: “Oh, Christ, I can not help it; I hold to my darling, and I can not give him up, even when I would. Oh, thou Saviour of human souls, even in their sinfulness, what shall I do?” Did ever such heart-cry go up to the Saviour of souls in vain?

You do not need me to tell you that before the dawn of the coming morning filled the room a voice of power had spoken peace. The plans, and the subterfuges, and the rebellings, and the “ifs,” all were gone. “As thou wilt,” was the only voice left in that thoroughly bared and bleeding heart.

It was even then that the shadow fell the darkest. When the doctor came next morning, for the first time he shook his head.

“Things do not look so hopeful as they did, here,” he said.

And Judge Burnham, turning quickly toward his wife, looking to see her faint or lose her reason (he hardly knew which phase of despair to expect), saw the pale, changed face.

“Is there no hope, Doctor?” and her voice though low, was certainly calmer than it had been for days.

“Well,” said the Doctor, relieved at her method of receiving his warning, “I never like to say that. While there is life there is hope, you know; but the fact is, I am disappointed in the turn that the trouble has taken. I am a good deal afraid of results.”

Had Ruth spoken her thoughts, she would have said: “I have been awfully afraid of results for a week; but a voice of greater power than yours has spoken to me now. It rests with Him, not you; and I think he wants my darling.” What she did say was:

“Ought the girls to be summoned?”

“Well,” said Dr. Bacon, regarding her curiously, “if it is important that they should be here, I think I should telegraph.”

Then, presuming upon long acquaintance with Judge Burnham, he said, as they passed down the hall together:

“Upon my word, Burnham, you have the most unaccountable wife in the world.”

“Comments are unnecessary, Doctor,” Judge Burnham said, in his haughtiest tones, and the next instant the front door closed with a bang, and the father had shut himself and his pain into the little room at the end of the hall. What was he to do? which way turn? how live? He had never until this moment had other than a passing anxiety. Now the whole crushing weight of the coming blow seemed to fall on him, and he had not the force of habit, nor the knowledge of past experiences, to drive him to his knees for a refuge. Instead, his fierce heart raved. If Ruth had been in danger of hating God, he felt, yes, actually realized, that his heart was filled at this moment with a fierce and bitter hatred. Can you imagine what the trials of that day were to Ruth? Have you any knowledge of what a shock it is to a torn and bleeding heart, which yet feels that the Almighty Father, the Everlasting Saviour, holds her and her treasure in the hollow of his hand, to come in contact with one who fiercely, blasphemously tramples on that trust? In this moment of supreme pain, it was given to Ruth’s conscience to remember that she had chosen for her closest friend one who made no profession of loyalty to her Redeemer—the Lover of her child. Why should she expect to rest on him now?

This day, like all the other dark ones, drew toward its closing; the Doctor watched and waited for, and dispatched for, did not come, and the night drew about them; and it so happened that, save the nurse and the household servants, the father and mother were alone with their baby. Early in the afternoon, a sudden remembrance had come to Ruth, and she had turned from the crib long enough to say, “Let father know.” And the messenger had gone, but even from him there was no response.

So they watched and waited. Judge Burnham, in feverish madness of anxiety, paced the floor, and alternately raged at the absent Doctor for not coming, and then wished he might never look upon his face again. Ruth staid on her knees beside that crib, from which for hours she had not moved, and her lips continually formed that inaudible prayer, “Thy will be done.” And really and truly the awful bitterness of the agony was gone out of her heart. There was a sound of wheels crunching the graveled drive—a bustle outside; somebody had come. Ruth glanced up, half fearfully. What was coming to break the solemn holiness of the hour? Not the Doctor, surely, with such bustle of noise. The door opened quickly, and they pressed in—her father, a tall stranger just beside him, and Mrs. Judge Erskine! She pushed past them both.

“Dear heart,” she said, bending down to the crib, but her words were for Ruth, not the baby. “We just got the word. I brought Dr. Parmelee; I couldn’t help it, child; I’ve seen him do such wonderful things. Your pa don’t believe in his medicines—little bits of pills, you know—and he said your husband didn’t but, la! what difference does that make? Men never do. They believe in getting ’em well, though. Come here, Dr. Parmelee. His pulse is real strong, and he looks to me as though he might—”

And here Mrs. Erskine paused for breath. She had been, in the meantime, throwing off her wraps, touching the baby’s hand with skillful fingers, touching the hot head, and rising at last to motion the Doctor forward—the tall stranger. He came hesitatingly, looking toward the father; but Judge Burnham caught at his name.

“Anything, Doctor—anything!” he said, hoarsely. “Dr. Bacon has proved himself an idiot. It is too late now; but, in heaven’s name, do something.”

Did it ever occur to you as strange that such men as Judge Burnham, in their hours of great mental pain, are very apt to call for blessings in “heaven’s name?”

It was a strange hour! Ruth, who had been hushed into silence and solemnity by the presence of the Death Angel, found herself whirled into the very midst of the struggle for life. Dr. Parmelee declared, with Mrs. Erskine, that there was still a good deal of strength, and he hoped. And then he stopped talking and went to work—quietly, skillfully, without commotion of any sort, yet issuing his orders with such swiftness and skill that mother and nurse, especially the former, were set to work to do instead of think. Especially was Mrs. Erskine alert, seeming to know by a sort of instinct, such as is noticeable in nurses who have a special calling for their work, what the Doctor wanted done, and how to do it. Far into the night they obeyed and watched. At last the Doctor rose up from a careful examination of his little patient.

“I believe,” he said, speaking quietly, “I believe there has been a change in the symptoms in the past two hours. If I mistake not, the crisis is past. I think your little one will recover.”

At the sound of these words, Judge Burnham strode over from his station at the head of the crib, and, grasping the Doctor’s hand, essayed to speak words, but his voice choked, and the self-possessed, polished gentleman lost every vestige of control, and broke into a passion of tears.

“He is in God’s hands, my friend,” the new Doctor said gently; “he will do right; and I think he has given the little life back to you.”

As for Ruth, she turned one look away from her baby’s face toward the Doctor’s; and he said as he went out from the home: “I declare that woman’s eyes paid me to-night.”

There was little talk and much watching during the rest of the night and the day that followed. Mrs. Erskine kept her post, keeping up that sort of alert doing which the skillful nurse understands so well, and which thrills the heart of a watcher with eager hope. One of Judge Burnham’s first morning duties was to send a curt and courteous note—if both terms are admissible—to Dr. Bacon, asking for his bill. Then his own carriage waited at the train for the coming of Dr. Parmelee.

“Now, look here, child,” said Mrs. Erskine, as, toward the midnight of the following night, Ruth turned for a moment from the crib and pressed her hand to her eyes, “you are just to go to bed and get a night’s sleep. We’ll have you on our hands, if you don’t, as sure as the world; and that will be a nice mess for baby, bless his heart. Judge Burnham, you just take her and put her to bed. I’m going to sit by my little boy, here, the whole blessed night; I won’t even wink; and when I undertake to watch, why I watch, and know how, though I do say it that shouldn’t.”

So, through much protesting from Ruth, and overruling by her father and husband, she was carried off to the room adjoining. In the gray dawn of another morning, she, having slept for four hours the sleep of utter exhaustion, started with a sudden, affrighted waking, wherein all the agony of the past days flashed over her, and, without waiting to remember the after-scene of joy, rushed to her nursery. There was the little crib, with its sleeping treasure; there on the couch, lay the tired nurse, sleeping quietly; there, at the crib’s side, sat Mrs. Erskine, keeping her faithful, tireless vigil. She looked up with a reassuring smile as Ruth came in.

“What did you wake up for? He’s as nice as a robin in a nest of down. He breathes just as easy! and the skin feels moist and natural. See how his little hair curls with the dampness! Anybody can see with half an eye that he is a great deal better. He’ll get on now real fast, Dr. Parmelee says so. I never did see the like of them little pills! Ain’t bigger than pin-heads, neither.”

Ruth bent low over the crib. The bounding pulse was quiet and steady at last; the breath came in slow, soft respirations, with no horrible gratings; the beautiful little hand, resting on the pillow, was doubled up as in the grace in which he held it when in health. Suddenly there rushed over Ruth all the probabilities of that solemn night, and all the blessings of this hour. After she had given him up utterly to God; after she had said, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust;” after she had said, “I am thine forever, Lord, entirely, though with empty arms,” then he had given her back her trust—offered her one more chance to train the soul for him. With the thought came also the remembrance of the door through which he had opened this blessed paradise of hope, and she turned suddenly, and, burying her head in Mrs. Erskine’s ample lap, cried out: “Oh, mother, mother! God bless you forever!” And the first tears that her tired eyes had felt for a week fell thick and fast.

“Land alive!” said Mrs. Judge Erskine. “Poor, dear heart! You are all tuckered out! You just go right straight back to bed. I won’t turn my eyes away from him, and he’s all right anyhow. I know the signs. Bless your heart, I nursed Mrs. Stevens’ baby only last week, and this very Dr. Parmelee was there; and I saw what them little pills and powders could do when the Lord chose to use ’em. You just go back, dearie, this minute. You can sleep all day as well as not. Grandma’ll take care of her blessed little darling, so she will.”

And Ruth went back to the bedside, and to her knees; and among the sentences of her prayer that morning was this, from a full heart:

“O God! I thank thee, that, despite all the blindness and rebellion of my heart, thou didst send to me a mother. Thou hast given me ‘the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.’”

THE END.