For three days little Raby had been so ill that the doctor had not
left the house day nor night, except for imperative calls from other
patients. Each night the paroxysms of croup returned with great
severity, and the little fellow's strength seemed fast giving way under
them. Sally and Hetty, his two mothers, were very differently affected
by the grief they bore in common. Sally was speechless, calm, almost
dogged in her silence. When Dr. Eben trying to comfort her, said:

"Don't feel so, Mrs. Little: I think we shall pull the boy through all
right." She looked up in his face, and shook her head, speaking no
word. "I am not saying it merely to comfort you; indeed, I am not, Mrs.
Little," said the doctor. "I really believe he will get well. These
attacks of croup seem much worse than they really are."

"I don't know that it comforts me," replied Sally, speaking very slowly.
"I don't know that I want him to live; but I think perhaps he might be
allowed to die easier, if I didn't need so much punishing. It is worse
than death to see him suffer so."

"Oh, Mrs. Little! how can you think thus of God?" exclaimed the doctor.
"He never treats us like that, any more than you could Raby."

"The minister at the Corners said so," moaned Sally. "He said it was
till the third and fourth generations."

At such moments, Dr. Eben, in his heart, thought undevoutly of
ministers. "A bruised reed, he will not break," came to his mind, often
as he looked at this anguish-stricken woman, watching her only child's
suffering, and morbidly believing that it was the direct result of her