An hour's delay might be fatal to all.
George Donner knew that he was dying, and had frequently urged his wife
to leave him, cross the mountains, and take care of her children. As she
held her darlings in her arms, it required no prophetic vision to
disclose pictures of sadness, of lonely childhood, of longing girlhood,
of pillows wet with tears, if these three little waifs were left to
wander friendless in California. She never expressed a belief that she
would see that land of promise beyond the Sierra. Often had her calm,
earnest voice told them of the future which awaited them, and so far as
possible had she prepared them to meet that future without the counsel
or sympathy of father or mother.
The night-shadows, creeping through the shivering pines, warned her of
the long, dreary way over which her tired feet must pass ere she reached
her dying husband's side. She is said to have appeared strangely
composed. The struggle was silent. The poor, bleeding heart brought not
a single moan to the lips. It was a choice between life, hope, and her
clinging babes, or a lonely vigil by a dying husband, and an unknown,
shroudless death in the wintry mountains. Her husband was sixty-three;
he was well stricken in years, and his life was fast ebbing away. If she
returned through the frosty night-winds, over the crisp, freezing snow,
she would travel fourteen miles that day.
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