CHAPTER XXI.
“NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD.”
The sick boy whispered the words a great many times to himself, as with his face to the wall, where neither his mother nor Susan could see it, he thought of what Rose had read, and wondered if it were true. He was not afraid to die. He had been very near death once before, and had not shrunk from meeting it as death. It was only the dying from home he had dreaded so much, asking to live till he could see his mother again, and the grass growing by the cottage door, and the violets by the well. And God had taken him at his word. He had lived to see his mother, to feel the touch of her rough hands upon his hair; to hear her voice, always kind to him, calling him her “Iky boy;” to see the green grass by the door, and the violets by the well. But this,
