The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Wharton again ordered the sleigh and drove to “the Hemlocks.” She found Mrs. Elwyn in a state bordering on distraction. “Oh, Ellen,” she said, “how I have wanted you! Lewie has had a night of dreadful suffering, and now he is unconscious. He does not know me, Ellen! He does not hear me when I call. I think he does not see. Oh, Ellen, what would life be to me if I lose my darling. And now I want you to _pray!_ You can pray, Ellen, and God answers your prayers. Pray for the life of my child! Mammy prays, but she will only say, ‘The will of the Lord be done!’” “And I can say no more, Ellen. I _do_ pray; I _have_ prayed, that your darling boy’s life may be spared, if it be the will of God, but more than that I cannot say.” “And what if it be His will to take my darling from me, Ellen?” “Then, Harriet, I hope you might learn to acquiesce without a murmur, and to say from your heart, ‘It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him good.’” “No, Ellen, never! I cannot contemplate the bare possibility of losing my boy. If you will not pray as I wish, I will try to pray myself;” and falling on her knees, she prayed for the life of her child. “Take whatever else thou wilt, oh God,” she cried, “but oh, spare me my child.” “Harriet, this seems to me most horrible impiety,” said Mrs. Wharton, “to ask God to grant your desires, whether agreeable to His will, or not; I should much fear if your request were granted, that it would only be to show you, that you know not what is best for yourself, and for those you love; and that you might some day wish you had left this matter in the hands of God, even if it had been His will to take your darling to Himself.” When Dr. Rodney came that morning, he found the child in a profound slumber. “This,” said he, “is, I think, the crisis of the disease; on no account let him be disturbed; if he awakes conscious, he will in all human probability recover.” And they watched him in breathless stillness, Mrs. Wharton on one side of the cradle, and his mother on a low stool beside him, with her sad gaze riveted on his little face, to catch his first waking glance, and to see whether the eye then beamed with intelligence, or not. Oh, who can imagine the agony, the terrible suspense of such watching, but those who have sat as that poor mother did, over a loved one hovering between life and death. And as Mrs. Wharton sat so silently opposite her, her thoughts were sometimes raised in prayer for her poor misguided sister; and sometimes she sat looking at her as a perfect enigma; with a heart so capable of loving devotedly, and yet so steeled against her own child, and so lovely and winning a little creature as Agnes. It was a puzzle which she had often tried to solve, in vain.