The old
woman at last, weary at holding her tongue so long, broke silence by
saying: "I always thought that child would never be raised, sir--he
was so smart and clever, and so dutiful to his ma. He was too good for
this world, sir. How long has he been sick, sir?"
"Little more than a week; but I beg you will be silent, lest you
disturb them in the next room."
"Yes, sir, certainly. Sick people ought to be kept quiet, though
perhaps that don't much matter when they are dying. Well, poor little
fellow; he was a pretty child, and will look lovely in his shroud and
cap, and----"
"Hush!" exclaimed John Dulan, in a tone so stern that the woman was
constrained to be silent.
Daylight was now peeping in at the windows. The doctor arose, put out
the candles, opened the shutters, stirred the fire, and went into the
next room. The widow was sitting in the same place, holding one of the
boy's hands between her own, her head bowed down upon it. The doctor
looked at the child; his eyes were now closed, as if in sleep. He laid
his hand upon his brow, and bending down, intently gazed upon him. The
child opened his eyes slowly. Passing quickly round the bed, the
doctor laid his hand upon the recumbent head and said: "Look up,
Hannah, your child is restored.
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