All that afternoon she sat with him, singing to him, telling him stories, playing with him. In the evening, however, she sought an opportunity to speak to her husband alone. "Angus, you know how nearly we lost our boy a week ago?" The curate paused, and looked at her earnestly, surprised at her look and manner. "Yes, my dearest," he said. "But God was merciful." "Oh! Angus," she said; and now relief came to her, for as she spoke she began to weep. "You are good, you are brave, you could have let him go. But for me--for me--it would have killed me. I should have died or gone mad!" "Lottie dear--my darling, you are over-strung. The trial, the fiery trial, was not sent. Why dwell on what our loving Father has averted?" "Oh, Angus! but has He--has He," then choking with pent-up emotion, she told what the doctor had said to-day, how necessary the expensive change was for the little life. "And we have no money," she said in conclusion, "our purse is very nearly empty." "Very nearly empty indeed," answered Angus Home. He was absolutely silent after this news, no longer attempting to comfort his wife. "Angus, God is cruel if for the sake of wanting a little money our boy must die." "Don't," said the curate--God was so precious to him that these words smote on him even now with a sense of agony--"don't," he repeated, and he raised his hand as though to motion away an evil spirit. "He is cruel if He lets our boy die for want of money to save him," repeated the mother in her desperation. "He won't do that, Lottie--He will never do that, there is not the least fear." "Then how are we to get the money?" "I don't know, I cannot think to-night. I will go up to Harold now." He turned and left the room with slow steps. As he mounted the stairs his back was so bent, his face so gray and careworn, that though scarcely forty he looked like an old man. This was Harold's one precious hour with his father, and the little fellow was sitting up in bed and expecting him. "Father," he said, noticing the anxious look on his face, which was generally as serene and peaceful as the summer sea, "what is the matter? You are ill; are you going to have the scarlet fever too?" "No, my dear, dear boy. I am quite well, quite well at least in body. I have a care on my mind that makes me look a little sad, but don't notice it, Harold, it will pass." "_You_ have a care on your mind!" said Harold in a tone of surprise. "I know mother often, often has, but I did not think you had cares, father." "How can I help it, boy, sometimes?" "I thought you gave your cares to God. I don't understand a bit how you manage it, but I remember quite well your telling mother that you gave your cares away to God." The father turning round suddenly, stooped down and kissed the boy. "Thank you, my son, for reminding me. Yes, I will give this care too to God, it shall not trouble me."