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.”