But, as the days went on, and Arthur grew so sick that his
parishioners began to tremble for their young minister's life, and to
think it perfectly right for Lucy to stay with him, even if she was
assisted in her labor of love by the stranger from New York, the
reserve disappeared and on the most perfect terms of amity she and
Thornton Hastings watched together by Arthur's side. Thornton Hastings
learned more lessons than one in that sick room where Arthur's faith
in God triumphed over the terrors of the grave, which, at one time,
seemed so near, while the timid Lucy, whom he had only known as a gay
butterfly of fashion, dared before him to pray that God would spare
her promised husband or give her grace to say, "Thy will be done."
Thornton could hardly say that he was skeptical before, but any doubts
he might have had touching the great fundamental truths on which a
true religion rests were gone forever, and he left Hanover a changed
man in more respects than one.
Arthur did not die, and on the Sunday preceding the week when the
usual Christmas decorations were to commence he came again before his
people, his face very pale and worn, and wearing upon it a look which
told of a new baptism, an added amount of faith which had helped to
lift him above the fleeting cares of this present life.
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