Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; Mothers and sons -- Fiction; Religious fiction; Unmarried mothers -- Fiction
And he said to me, These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them
white in the blood of the Lamb.
Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve
him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on
the throne shall dwell among them.
They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more;
neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.
For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall
feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of
waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.
"He preaches sermons sometimes," said Sally, nudging Mr Davis, as
they rose from their knees at last. "I make no doubt there was as
grand a sermon in yon paper-book as ever we hear in church. I've
heard him pray uncommon fine--quite beyond any but learned folk."
Mr Bradshaw had been anxious to do something to testify his respect
for the woman, who, if all had entertained his opinions, would have
been driven into hopeless sin. Accordingly, he ordered the first
stonemason of the town to meet him in the chapel-yard on Monday
morning, to take measurement and receive directions for a tombstone.
They threaded their way among the grassy heaps to where Ruth was
buried, in the south corner, beneath the great Wych-elm. When they
got there, Leonard raised himself up from the new-stirred turf. His
face was swollen with weeping; but when he saw Mr Bradshaw he calmed
himself, and checked his sobs, and, as an explanation of being where
he was when thus surprised, he could find nothing to say but the
simple words:
"My mother is dead, sir."
His eyes sought those of Mr Bradshaw with a wild look of agony, as
if to find comfort for that great loss in human sympathy; and at the
first word--the first touch of Mr Bradshaw's hand on his shoulder--he
burst out afresh.
"Come, come! my boy!--Mr Francis, I will see you about this
to-morrow--I will call at your house.--Let me take you home, my poor
fellow. Come, my lad, come!"
The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr Benson's house, he
came leading and comforting her son--and, for a moment, he could not
speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice,
and filled his eyes with tears.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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