What Came Afterwards CHAPTER 7.

It was a sight to move the coldest heart. Doctor Hofland stood still, looking upon the dead child and the kneeling mother; stood still for nearly a minute, an unwilling intruder, where his presence seemed like a desecration. The mother was, to all appearance, as motionless and unconscious as the child. Silently retiring, the Doctor entered the next room. The air felt softer and warmer here, for there was a fire on the hearth. As he came in, Mr. Ewbank, who was alone, and lying with his face to the wall, turned in the bed. He did not speak. The Doctor sat down, and taking one of his hands, held his fingers on the wrist. "How was your cough through the night?"

"Easier."

"Has it troubled you this morning?"

"Very little."

"Pulse softer and slower. No fever. A very decided improvement. In a few days we shall have you up, Mr. Ewbank."

There was a look of gratitude in the sick man's glistening eyes, for Doctor Hofland spoke with kindness and sympathy.

"Death has been here since I saw you last night." The Doctor's voice dropped to a lower key.

"Yes, and he came in mercy." The tones were not steady.

"All the ways of God are merciful."

"I believe so." The sick man shut his eyes. It was the outward, involuntary expression of his inward state. He was walking, in the dark, by faith, not by sight.

"I am glad to hear you say this, my friend. Such confidence in God is an anchor to the soul; a light from Heaven when the sun is obscured."

A silence followed.

"When did little Theo die?" asked the Doctor.

"About day dawn."

"So the two mornings met; for him the spiritual morning — for us the natural."

Mr. Ewbank did not reply, but fixed his eyes intently, and with a look of inquiry, upon the Doctor's face.

"Death to us — but resurrection to him."

"I know, Doctor," said Mr. Ewbank, speaking calmly, "that the angels have taken him. I know that it is well with our child. If a word of mine could restore him, that word would not find utterance. But we are natural and human — and he was very dear. For myself, I can bear this sorrow; but, my poor wife!" His voice shook as he closed the sentence.

"As our day is — so shall our strength be," answered the Doctor. "God will comfort her heart as well as yours."

While he thus spoke, the door leading from the next room opened, and Mrs. Ewbank came in. Her face was calm.

"How is my husband this morning?" she asked, as she took the Doctor's offered hand. Her eyes were fixed on him, and full of earnest appeal.

"Better — much better," was the assuring reply.

"You think so, Doctor?"

"Yes. He is better in every way. With good nursing and right medicine, he will be around again very soon. I think I understand his case, ma'am. You see how much he is improved already. So, take heart. We shall make a sound man of him."

That was promising too much; and yet, while Mrs. Ewbank knew it was more than could ever be accomplished — she took heart in the assurance.

"I will send another package of medicine, to be taken according to directions," added the Doctor, as he made a movement to go.

"Won't you look at him, Doctor?" Mrs. Ewbank laid her hand on the door through which she had just came. They went in together, and she shut the door behind her. Then turning down the sheet that covered her dead baby's face, she said, while her voice trembled through the calm surface she was striving to throw over it —

"It is best, Doctor. I see it now. But it was very hard to give him up — very hard to see him die. I thought it would kill me."

She drew the white sheet over the dead again. Then turning to Doctor Hofland, she regarded him steadily for some moments.

"You do not know me," she said, at length.

"Know you?" a flash of surprise swept over the Doctor's face.

"Lydia Guyton, that was."

"Impossible!" returned the Doctor.

"I do not wonder that you say impossible," mournfully answered Mrs. Ewbank. "And yet, I am Lydia Guyton. Life gives strange histories, Doctor."

"Strange indeed! But why did you not tell me this last night?"

"The time had not come. Something stood in the way, and held me back. It may have been pride; but I cannot tell. I sent for you, because fear lest my child should die overcame all reluctance. I knew that, if human skill could save him, you would not fail. It did not save him. You came too late. Not for my own sake, nor even for my children's have I now lifted the veil that concealed my identity; but for my husband's. Oh, Doctor! have regard for him. He is one of the best of men. For his sake, I now crush back the native pride which would have let me die, alone, with sealed lips, and tell you who I am. Don't fear that my husband will burden you in any way. He is neither a drone nor an incapable. You have skill as a physician, and influence as a man. Restore my husband's health — you have already promised that — and then help him to some position where his education, his talents, and his industry will make both him and his family independent. Oh, Doctor!" Mrs. Ewbank laid her hand on his arm, and spoke with increasing fervor. "Help us now! Help my husband. He is a good and a true man. I, his wife, say this, knowing what I say."

"Be of good courage, Lydia," answered Doctor Hofland. "I will do for your husband all in my power."

"God bless you!" As she said this, sobbing, Mrs. Ewbank caught the Doctor's hand and kissed it.

"Mrs. Hofland will be here in a little while," were the assuring words spoken by Doctor Hofland, as he turned from the daughter of his early friend, and left her with tears flooding her face; tears of hope — sweet, not bitter, even though she stood in the death-chamber of her child.

Since the Doctor's entrance, a load of wood had been left at the door, and a man was cutting it. Little Esther had brought in an armful, and was kindling a fire in the room below. She paused in her work, looking up at the kind-hearted physician as he came downstairs.

"That's right," he said, in a voice of encouragement. "Make up a good warm fire, and drive out the winter." And he passed on, leaving the house and hurrying homeward.

"I have a strange story for your ears," said Doctor Hofland, on meeting his wife. "The sick child I visited last night is dead."

"The child, whose parents you found in such destitution, and to whom we sent a basket this morning?"

"Yes."

"Better in Heaven than with them."

"Not that love failed in the parents' hearts; but, all God's providences are right."

"What is your strange story?" asked Mrs. Hofland.

"You remember Lydia Guyton?"

Mrs. Hofland gave a startle.

"She is the mother of this dead babe!"

"Why, husband?" The color went suddenly out of Mrs. Hofland's face.

"It is true. From the moment I looked at her last evening, and heard her speak, I was impressed with something familiar. The same thing struck me this morning. But, I had not thought of Lydia. You may imagine my surprise when she revealed herself."

"So much for an imprudent marriage! I had little hope in her future; but, I did not think of a fall so low as this."

"She may be rising instead of falling," returned the Doctor; "and from something I observed and heard this morning, she is standing in a higher place than when you saw her last."

"Internally higher, you mean."

"Yes; and that, you know, is the only true and permanent elevation."

"What is her name?"

"Ewbank."

"Brady was the name of the man she married. I remember that. She must be living with a second husband."

"Yes, that is probably so; and he is a very different man from the first husband. Educated, refined, religious — so, in a brief observation, I read him. And Lydia said to me — 'he is one of the best of men,' with her heart in her voice. Diane, for the sake of your old friend, her mother, as well as for humanity's sake — go to her without delay. I will see that all things are fittingly arranged for the child's burial. In the ways of Providence, this family has come to our door, and we must not fail in duty. It is my intention to see her brother, Henry, this morning, and advise him of her extremity. He cannot know the state of destitution in which she is living."

"It might save you an unpleasant interview to send him a note. I've heard that he is a cold, haughty man," said Mrs. Hofland.

"I shall not regard my own feelings in the matter," replied the Doctor. "A personal interview will best serve Lydia, and I shall seek it without delay. If he will yield nothing through kindness, or humanity — then shame must extort unwilling benefaction. I hold the key that will unlock his money chest, and must use the instrument, be the gain to his sister ever so small."

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