CHAPTER XLIX.

WEDNESDAY.

THEN followed weary oppressed days for the little invalid, in which Gertrude watched and tended him with untiring patience.

Four very slow days, during which she knew that Otto was near, and must be making his hasty preparations for his long journey.

He and she had decided that no communication whatever must pass from her to him, because of the nature of the illness from which Randall was suffering, as well as the nature of the case which Otto was taking up.

"If my boy took it, or any one had it on board, I should hardly be able to forgive myself," he had said, "so we will run no risk whatever. I can write to you every day; that will be my only comfort."

"And I shall not have that comfort," she had answered sadly, "because I can send no letter to you!"

Each morning Mr. Shaddock brought messages and dainty food from the next house, meeting Gertrude in the garden and hearing all particulars of his little son.

"My wife keeps on asking for Randall, but I have told her that he has an infectious complaint, but is under your care, and that the doctor sees him twice every day."

"That is the greatest comfort," said Gertrude.

Wednesday came at last, and with the postman another bunch of flowers and a good-bye letter from Otto.

"I felt last night as if I must come and look at you through the window, but I am glad that I did not give way to it. I feel our duty is plain, and though it costs us a great deal, we will try to be happy in it."

Gertrude too was glad he had not come, though all that Tuesday she had hoped and feared alternately that he would.

Now the last chance was over, and he was gone!

She laid her head down on Randall's bed and wept her good-bye till she had no tears left.

The child had been very ill all night, and she and Mrs. Swift had shared the watch, each taking half the night. To-day, however, she fancied there was a change for the better, and she anxiously waited the doctor's arrival to hear her hopes confirmed.

She was just wiping away her tears, and was going to raise her head, when Randall's hot little hand was put out and touched her forehead.

"Miss Ashlyn."

"Yes, dear?"

"Where am I? Oh, I remember! Is it morning yet? May I get up?"

He tried to start up, but found himself too weak.

"My flowers are very fresh this morning," he said with a little smile, as he saw the new bunch just where the faded ones had stood.

"Are they not sweet?" she answered.

"Were you sorry you gave them to me?" he asked wistfully. "I think you've been crying."

"I was glad I gave them to you, dear. These are some fresh ones that Otto sent to me to-day, because he is gone away."

There was a pause. Randall lay looking at the flowers meditatively, but he did not ask for them.

"Where are the others?" he asked at last.

"I have thrown them away. I could not keep them after they were faded you know, dear, because of the scarlet fever."

He assented, adding, however, "Did they fade in one night?"

"You have been ill four nights, dear."

"Have I? Well, I thought it was a long time! Sometimes I saw you sitting there, and sometimes didn't know where I was. That was funny, wasn't it?"

"Very funny, but people do feel like that when they are ill."

"I s'pose they do. Then sometimes I felt very cross, Miss Ashlyn, and wished you would go away. But all the same, you seemed very kind to me, and did not turn cross, as I am sure anybody might."

"You see, I knew you were ill, and did not know what you did," she answered gently.

Again Randall was silent. He took his jelly, and bore her attentions as if used to them. But his eyes, which before had hardly seemed to recognize her, now were quietly looking in her face, with a look she had never seen in them before.

"Am I getting better?" he asked presently.

"I think you are, dear."

"I'm glad of that. I did not want to die."

"When the Lord Jesus is our Saviour, it does not matter whether we live or die," she responded. "If we live, it will be to try to please Him and be His; if we die, we shall be glad to go to Him: as glad, Randall, as a little tired child is to run to its mother's arms!"

"I'm very tired, I think," he answered, "and I wish I could run into my mother's arms!"

"I wish you could, dear," she answered, her eyes watering with sympathetic tears, "but though your dear mother cannot come to you because she is ill, the Lord Jesus is always near, and loves you so much, and will rest you so sweetly if you ask Him!"

"I have never asked Him anything. Hugh has, but I always thought Hugh was a baby."

"We cannot do without Jesus," said Gertrude earnestly, "and I would not—oh, for the world."

"I see that," answered Randal wearily, "and I'm sorry I called Hugh a cry-baby—very sorry."

"Oh, are you, dear? I am so glad."

"Glad?"

"Glad that you are sorry for it. Now, dear, you have talked quite enough. But just turn round on your pillow and rest your head on its cool softness, and say to yourself, 'Jesus loves Randall! He will rest me if I come to Him! Jesus loves me.'"

The child did not answer in words. He gave one glance at her, and then turned as she had advised, nestling his head into his pillow, as if weary and satisfied.

Whether he had taken the rest of her advice, she did not know. But from his deep peaceful sigh as he fell asleep, she thought he had.

After all, that was a happy Wednesday.

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