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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 120 pages of information about J. S. Le Fanu's Ghostly Tales, Volume 4.

It was, indeed, very true, that his skin was unnaturally dry and hot; his little pulse, too, was going at a fearful rate.

“I do think,” said I—­resolved to conceal the extent of my own apprehensions—­“I do think that he is just a little feverish; but he has often been much more so; and will, I dare say, in the morning, be perfectly well again.  I dare say, but for little Fanny’s dream, we should not have observed it at all.”

“Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!” sobbed the poor little woman, leaning over the bed, with her hands locked together, and looking the very picture of despair.  “Oh, my darling, what has happened to you?  I put you into your bed, looking so well and beautiful, this evening, and here you are, stricken with sickness, my own little love.  Oh, you will not—­you cannot, leave your poor mother!”

It was quite plain that she despaired of the child from the moment we had ascertained that it was unwell.  As it happened, her presentiment was but too truly prophetic.  The apothecary said the child’s ailment was “suppressed small-pox”; the physician pronounced it “typhus.”  The only certainty about it was the issue—­the child died.

To me few things appear so beautiful as a very young child in its shroud.  The little innocent face looks so sublimely simple and confiding amongst the cold terrors of death—­crimeless, and fearless, that little mortal has passed alone under the shadow, and explored the mystery of dissolution.  There is death in its sublimest and purest image—­no hatred, no hypocrisy, no suspicion, no care for the morrow ever darkened that little face; death has come lovingly upon it; there is nothing cruel, or harsh, in his victory.  The yearnings of love, indeed, cannot be stifled; for the prattle, and smiles, and all the little world of thoughts that were so delightful, are gone for ever.  Awe, too, will overcast us in its presence—­for we are looking on death; but we do not fear for the little, lonely voyager—­for the child has gone, simple and trusting, into the presence of its all-wise Father; and of such, we know, is the kingdom of heaven.

And so we parted from poor little baby.  I and his poor old nurse drove in a mourning carriage, in which lay the little coffin, early in the morning, to the churchyard of ——.  Sore, indeed, was my heart, as I followed that little coffin to the grave!  Another burial had just concluded as we entered the churchyard, and the mourners stood in clusters round the grave, into which the sexton was now shovelling the mould.

As I stood, with head uncovered, listening to the sublime and touching service which our ritual prescribes, I found that a gentleman had drawn near also, and was standing at my elbow.  I did not turn to look at him until the earth had closed over my darling boy; I then walked a little way apart, that I might be alone, and drying my eyes, sat down upon a tombstone, to let the confusion of my mind subside.

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