We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our
fellow-creatures, yet God gave his only Son a sacrifice for us."
"How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma
left the room.
"And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would
rather that she should be as she is."
The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say.
Emma's first summer and winter at Appledale had passed away. It was a
beautiful morning in May; Martha Lindsay was sitting beside a low couch
where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had
more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that
the breath was gone. Dora was in her little room adjoining Emma's, and
with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the Lord,
that as in life so in death, Emma might glorify him. Mrs. Lindsay was
pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would
break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as Emma
had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to
Him who in no wise will cast us out. Mr. Graffam was at work in the
garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the
chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly.
Susan Sliver had watched with Emma many a night, and now she had
retired for a few moments while Emma slept.
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