On the ninth morning she
ascended to watch for her star of mercy. Clear and bright it stood over
against her beseeching gaze, set in the light liquid blue that overflows
the pathway of the opening day. She prayed earnestly as she gazed, for
she knew that there were but few hours of life in those dearest to her.
If human aid came not that day, some eyes, that would soon look
imploringly into hers, would be closed in death before that star would
rise again. Would she herself, with all her endurance and resisting
love, live to see it? Were they at length to perish? Great God! should
it be permitted that they, who had been preserved through so much,
should die at last so miserably?
Her eyes were dim, and her sight wavering. She could not distinguish
trees from men on the snow, but had they been near, she could have heard
them, for her ear had grown so sensitive that the slightest unaccustomed
noise arrested her attention. She went below with a heavier heart than
ever before. She had not a word of hope to answer the languid, inquiring
countenances that were turned to her face, and she was conscious that it
told the story of her despair. Yet she strove with some half-insane
words to suggest that somebody would surely come to them that day.
Another would be too late, and the pity of men's hearts and the mercy of
God would surely bring them.
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