But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature.
She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too
sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes
which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the
door to keep out the light and noise.
The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she
unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some
article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up
with a smile and say,
"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a
deep, heavy sleep.
She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her,
pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but
thought her symptoms favorable.
Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but
the disease rapidly increased.
The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up
the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would
start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by
begging to be carried to her own dear mother.
The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance,
her extremities becoming cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her
countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state. While laying thus,
she started up, exclaiming,
"Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?"
"O, yes, my dear," said her mother.
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