Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 24

The little village burying-ground was not far distant. A grave was
opened there, for him who but one short week ago was as full of life, of
bounding vigor and of high hopes, as the strongest there.

   "Oh, had it been but told you then,
     To mark whose lamp was dim;
   From out the ranks of these young men
     Would ye have singled _him_?

   "Whose was the sinewy arm that flung
     Defiance to the ring?
   Whose shout of victory loudest rung?
     Yet not for glorying.

   "Whose heart in generous thought and deed,
     No rivalry could brook?
   And yet distinction claiming not;
     There lies he,--go and look!

   "Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid
     His dark locks on his brow;
   Like life, save deeper light and shade,--
     We'll not disturb them now!"

Of all who stood by that open grave, none wept so passionately as little
Arthur. He could not control his emotions, and it was in vain that
friends tried to soothe him. Poor child! did a sad presentiment of
coming evil pass over his soul?

"Slowly and sadly they laid him down," and "slowly and sadly" they
returned home; that home now so vacant, so desolate! There let us leave
them; sorrowing, but "not sorrowing as those without hope." It is on
just such scenes as these, that the light of Christian Faith shines with
a pure and holy radiance, cheering the bereaved heart, and speaking
sweet words of reunion, of immortality, of glory "which fadeth not
away."




CHAPTER VIII


MORE TRIALS.

The next day Arthur returned to Mr. Martin's. His affectionate heart was
saddened, and every pleasure seemed to have lost its charm. But the
griefs of childhood quickly pass away; and Arthur in a few days became
calm and cheerful. A close observer, however, might have seen a deeper
shade of thoughtfulness in his eyes, and a softer tone in his always
gentle voice. He went to school again, and mingled in his quiet way,
with the sports of his companions. Theodore could not be spared from
home-duties to attend school in the summer months, and Arthur saw much
less of him than formerly. They would meet occasionally after tea, and
with Rover by their side, stroll down by the stream which wound in
fanciful little curves about the lot; or would play at ball, on the
green before the house. Arthur seemed less inclined than usual for noisy
sports, and Theodore sometimes thought he was a sad, stupid playfellow.
One evening about five weeks after Henry's funeral, Mrs. Martin said to
her husband,--

"It seems to me, Arthur is not well to-day. He has complained a great
deal of his head, and his face looks flushed and feverish."

"I haven't noticed him to-day," replied Mr. Martin, "but he certainly is
not a healthy boy, and I am afraid never will be."

The next morning, Arthur refused to eat; and before night a burning
fever had evidently seized upon him. A physician was called, who said at
once,--

"He is a very sick child; his head is so hot, I fear a brain fever. You
had better send for his mother, for mothers I find are generally the
best nurses. He's a fine little fellow, and we must try to save him."

Mr. Martin went himself for Mrs. Hamilton the next morning. It was
indeed heavy tidings that he bore. Was God about to strip her of all she
loved? Her little, tender-hearted Arthur was a precious child, and must
he be taken too? But she quietly prepared to go to him. That was
manifestly her first duty. There was no time for the indulgence of
grief, though heavy forebodings weighed upon her heart.

When Mrs. Hamilton reached the bedside of her child, she found him
delirious, and was shocked to see he did not know her. He was much
sicker than she expected to find him, and her heart sunk within her.

"Is there no hope, Doctor?" she asked, with a quivering lip.

"Certainly there is a chance for a boy of his age; but he is a very sick
child, Mrs. Hamilton. Twill be a hard struggle for life, and it is
impossible to tell what will be the result."

Day after, day, night after night, the mother bent over the sick-bed of
her child; her heart sickening with alternations of hope and fear.
Sometimes the pulse would lessen, and the medicine seem to affect him
favorably, and she would hope her prayers had been heard, and that life
and not death was to be his fate; then the fever would rage with renewed
violence, and his little frame would be convulsed with pain. At no time
did he appear to know who was with him, or have the slightest gleam of
consciousness.

He talked but little, and that incoherently; like one in a dream. Those
were long, sad hours to the anxious mother's heart. "How I lived through
those days and weeks of anguish, I know not," she afterwards said, "but
strength was given me according to the day."

And where was Rover, faithful, affectionate Rover, in these mournful
days? The poor animal moaned and howled perpetually. He would it through
the whole day and night, upon the stairs leading to Arthur's room,
endeavoring to gain admittance, and when driven away, would contrive to
return to his post, watching with intense eagerness those who entered or
left the room; continually making that dismal moaning which a dog in
distress usually does. It was heartrending to hear him. One day, they
allowed him to enter the room, hoping it might quiet him; he jumped upon
the bed instantly, and disturbed the suffering child so much that he was
never permitted to go in again. Poor Arthur! he no longer had a smile or
caress even for Rover, the companion of his lonely hours, the sharer of
his exile! He did not even notice him, except by raising his hand to
keep him off.