The champion of God, however, was at his post.  He advanced to the bed-side, and in tones which proclaimed the fulness of his sympathy in her sufferings, and with a countenance lit up by that trust in heaven which long trials of his own and similar bereavements had given him, he addressed her in words of comfort and consolation, and raised her heart to better hopes than any which this world of care and trial can bestow.  It is difficult, however, to give comfort in such moments, nor is it prudent to enforce it too strongly.  The widow looked upon her boy’s face, which was sweetly marked with the graces of innocence, even in the throes of death.  The light of life was nearly withdrawn from his dim blue eye; but he felt from time to time for the mother’s, hands, and the mother’s bosom.  He was striving, too, to utter his little complaint; attempting probably to describe his sufferings, and to beg relief from his unhappy parent; but the dissolving power of death was on all his faculties; his words lapsed into each, other indistinctly, and were consequently unintelligible.  Mrs. Vincent, for such was the widow’s name, heard the words addressed to her by Mr. Clement; she raised her eyes, to heaven for a moment, and then turned them, heavy with misery, upon her dying boy.  Her heart—­her hopes:—­almost her whole being were peculiarly centered in the object before her; and though she had imagined that sympathy might support her, she now felt that no human power could give her consolation.  The tears were falling fast from Mr. Clement’s cheeks, who felt, that until the agonies of the boy were over, it would be vain to offer her any kind of support.  At length she exclaimed—­

“Oh!  Saviour, who suffered the agony of the cross, and who loved little children like him, let your mercy descend upon my beloved!  Suffer him to come to you soon.  Oh!  Saviour—­hear a mother’s prayer, for I loved him above all, and he was our life!  Core of my heart, you are striving to tell your mother what you suffer, but the weight of death is upon your tongue, and you cannot do it!  I am here, my beloved sufferer—­I am here—­you struggle to find my hands to tell me—­to tell me—­but I cannot help you.”

“Mrs. Vincent,” said the curate, “we have reason to believe that what appears to us to be the agony of death, is not felt so severely as we imagine; strive to moderate your grief—­and reflect that he will soon be in peace, and joy, and happiness, that will never end.  His little sorrows and sufferings will soon be over, and the bosom of a merciful God will receive him into life and glory.”

“But, sir,” replied the widow, the tears fast streaming down her cheeks, “do you not see what he suffers?  Look at the moisture that is on his little brow, and see how he writhes with the pain.  He thinks that I can stop it, and it is for that he presses my hand.  During his whole illness that was still his cry—­’oh, mother, take away this pain, why don’t you take away the pain!’”