"
Poor Wilfred was sobbing by her side, overcome by the blank vision
thus opening before him. What would the world be to him, left alone
amidst fierce and hateful foreigners, who had slain his father, and
would willingly slay him?
"Mother, I cannot live without you. If you die--" and he could say
no more, for it shamed his manhood to weep, as he would have said,
"like a girl."
Poor lad, we must excuse him.
"Now, my dear Wilfred, wilt thou not renew thy promise, and pray
God for help to keep it?"
"Yes, by God's help, at least while you live; but dost thou think
thou art so ill, dear mother?--it is but fancy."
"Nay, I feel I am daily, hourly, drawing nearer my end, as if the
lamp of life were burning more and more dimly. Morning after
morning I rise weaker from my bed, and mortal strength seems slowly
and surely forsaking me. But it will be but a short parting; thou
must pray that we may live for ever together. God will grant it for
His dear Son's sake."
And the mother and son knelt down to pray.
It was too true, the English lady of Aescendune was slowly
declining--passing away, drawing nearer daily to the bright land
where her lost Edmund had gone before.
It was a complaint which no one understood, although a Jewish
physician, whom her husband in his anxiety consulted, prescribed a
medicine which he said would ensure her recovery in a few weeks.
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