CHAPTER VII.

LA CROISSETTE.


How chill and painful was my awaking! The soles of my feet were raw
with so much walking after they were blistered, and the inflammation
irritated my whole frame, which was likewise stiffened with so much
beating. When I opened my eyes, I saw the anxious face of my dear
mother, as she examined my wounds, and prepared with light hand to dress
them. Nor would anybody have guessed she herself was terribly burnt, had
not one of the children, inadvertently running against her, caused a
sudden wince, but without any audible expression of pain. The thought
of what she was enduring with such stoicism, or rather, let me say,
with such Christianity, enabled me, better than any stimulant would
have done, to endure without murmuring; and she said to me, with strong
approval in her kind eyes, "Your wounds tell me, my poor boy, how much
you have to bear; therefore there is no need to cry out. Our light
affliction which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more
exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

"Yes, that is true indeed," said my father, "and things might have gone
much worse with us."

"Can you say that, my father," said I, "when you have lost all?"

"I have not lost all," replied he. "Before the factory was attacked,