he poor curate's family until the time came round for his
next visit. Meanwhile Mrs. Home stood still for a moment where he had
left her, then went slowly to her own room.

"Mother, mother, I want you," called the weak, querulous voice of the
sick child.

"Coming in a moment, darling," she said. But for that one moment, she
felt she must be alone.

Locking her door she went down on her knees. Not a tear came to her
eyes, not a word to her lips. There was an inward groan, expressing
itself in some voiceless manner after this fashion,--

"My God, my God, must I go through the fiery furnace?" Then smoothing
her hair, and forcing a smile back to her lips, she went back to her
little son.

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 st