Just at twilight one evening, he awoke from a short slumber, and his eye sought his mother at his bedside.  She leaned over him and softly pressed her lips to his forehead.  “Mother,” he said, faintly, “the Doctor has given up all hope of my life, has he not?” Nerving herself to calmness for his sake, she answered, “He thinks you very sick, Charley, but I cannot give up all hope.  How can I part with you, my beloved?”

“Mother,” said he, as he took her hand in both his, and laid it on his breast, “I want, while I am able, to tell you how I feel, and I want you to know what you have done for me.  I was a passionate, bad tempered boy, and you know father—­” He stopped.  “Mother, I should have been a ruined boy but for you.  I see it all now plainly.  You have saved me, mother.  You have saved my soul.  You have been my guide and comfort in life.  You have taught me to meet even death and fear no evil, for you have shown me my sin, and taught me to repent of it, and love and trust the precious Saviour, who died that His blood might cleanse even my guilt.  I feel that I can lie in His arms, sure that He has forgiven my sin and washed my sinful soul white in His blood.  How often you have told me He would do it if I asked Him, and I have asked Him constantly, and He will do it, He will not cast me off.  Mother, when you think of me, be comforted, for you have led me to my Saviour, and I rejoice to go and be with Him forever.”

The next sun arose on the cold remains of what was so lately the active and happy Charles Arnold, and there was bitter grief in that dwelling, for very dear had the kind and loving brother been to them.  The father was stunned—­thunderstruck.  Little had he expected such a grief as this, and he seemed utterly unable to endure it, or to believe it.  How much he communed with his own heart of his neglected duty to that departed boy, we know not, but dreadful was the anguish he endured, and the mother had the joy to perceive that his manner afterward was far more tender to his remaining children, whom he seemed now for the first time to realize he might not always have with him, to be neglected and put aside, as a trouble and as a care, rather than as a precious gift, to be most carefully trained up for God.

But all wondered at the perfect calmness of that afflicted mother.  So devoted—­so saintlike—­it would seem that she was in constant and sweet communing with the redeemed spirit of her boy.  No regret, no repining escaped her lips, and many who knew how fondly she loved her children, and had feared that this sudden blow would almost overwhelm her, gazed with wonder at her perfect submission, her cheerful touching tenderness of voice and speech.  And though tears would at times flow, yet she would say in the midst of them, “These are not tears of grief but of joy, that my darling son is safe, and holy, and blessed forever.  Tears of gratitude to God for His goodness.”  And when hours of sadness, and of longing for her absent one came, as they will come to the bereaved at times, a faint voice seemed to whisper in her ear.  “Mother, you have saved me, you have saved my soul!” And sweetest comfort came with that never to be forgotten whisper from the dying bed of her precious child, to sustain her in the darkest hour.