She had sunk
into an easy slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I did
not tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved
to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my
conduct.
"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke: and, hurrying on my
clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was dead! She never
spoke more--never smiled upon me again and when I touched the hand
that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that it
made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness
of my heart. I thought then I might wish to die, and be buried with
her, and, old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to
give, could my mother but have lived to tell me that she forgave my
childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by
her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory
of that reproachful look she gave me will bite like a serpent and
sting like an adder."
And when your mother dies, do you not think that you will feel remorse
for every unkind word you have uttered, and for every act of
ingratitude? Your beloved parents must soon die. You will probably be
led into their darkened chamber, to see them pale and helpless on
their dying bed. Oh, how will you feel in that solemn hour! All your
past life will come to your mind, and you will think that you would
give worlds, if you could blot out the remembrance of past
ingratitude.
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