He drew her yet closer, the other arm still embracing his mother. "Are you
suffering much, dearest mother?"
"Not more than He giveth me strength to bear; and His consolations are not
small.
"My dear children, I have tried to hide this from you lest it should mar
your happiness. Do not let it do so; it is no cause of regret to me. I
have lived my three-score years and ten, and if by reason of strength they
should be four-score, yet would their strength be labor and sorrow. I am
deeply thankful that our Father has decreed to spare me the infirmities of
extreme old age, by calling me home to that New Jerusalem where sin and
sorrow, pain and feebleness, are unknown."
"But to see you suffer, mother!" groaned her son.
"Think on the dear Hand that sends the pain--so infinitely less than what
He bore for me; that it is but for a moment; and of the weight of glory it
is to work for me. Try, my dear children, to be entirely submissive to His
will."
"We will, mother," they answered; "and to be cheerful for your sake."
A shadow had fallen upon the brightness of the hitherto happy home--a
shadow of a great, coming sorrow--and the present grief of knowing that
the dear mother, though ever patient, cheerful, resigned, was enduring
almost constant and often very severe pain.
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