The Jackson standard. [volume] (Jackson C.H., Ohio) 1847-1888, 1882-02-23
lFrom Blackwood's Magazine.l
THE OPEN DOOR.
Inscribed to q dear and happy Memoayl
TCoNTINUED. |


near, lest we should disturb tina
blessed sleep. It looked like actus
sleep-not the lethargy into whic,
my wife told me he would sometime
fall. She told me everything in tn
next room, which communicated wit
his, rising now and then and going t.
the door Of communication; and il
this there was much that was yer,
startling and confusing to the mind
1t appeared that ever since the winte
began, since it was early dark, ant
night had fallen before his return
from school, he had been hearing
voices among the ruins Sat first only
groaning, he said, at which his pony
was as much alarmed as he was, but
by degrees a voice. The tears rar
down my wifes cheeks as she de.
scribed to me how he would start uI
in the night and cry out, ''Oh, mother
let me in! oh, mother, let me inr
with a pathos which rent her heart
And she sitting there all the time
only longing to do everything his
heart could desire! But though she
would try to soothe him, crying, "You
are at home, my darling. I am here,
Don't you know me? Your mother
is here!" he would only stare at her,
and after while spring up again
with the same cry. At other times
he would be quite reasonable, she said,
asking eagerly when | was coming,
but declaring that he was coming,
but declaring that he must go with
me as soon as | did so, ''to let them
in" "The doctor thinks his nervous
system must have received a shock, :"
my wife said. "Oh, Henry, can it be
that we have pushed him on too much
with his work-a delicate boy like
Roland? ?-and what is his work in
comparison with his health" Even l.!
as if [ were an inhuman father sacri-
fcing my child to my ambition. But
[ would not increase her trouble by
taking any notice. After a while
they persuaded me to lie down, to
rest, and to eat-none of which things
had been possible since I received
their letters The mere fact of being
on the spot, of course, in itself was a
great thing; and when | knew that I
could be called in moment, as soon
as he was awake and wanted me, 1 felt
capable, even in the dark, chill morn
ing twilight, to snatch an hour or
two's sleep. AS it happened, was so
worn out with the strain Of anxiety,
and he so quieted and consoled by
knowing [ had come, that I was not
disturbed till the afternoon, when the
twilight had again settled down.
There was just daylight enough to see
his face when | went to him; and
what a change in fortnight! He
was paler and more worn, | thought,
than even in those dreadful days in
the plains before we left India. His
hair seemed to me to have grown long
and lank; his eyes were like blazing
lights projecting out Of his white
face He got hold of my hand in
cold and tremulous clutch, and waved
to everybody to go away. go away
even mother" he aid,-''go away"
This went to her heart, for she did
not like that even [ should have more
Of the boys confidence than herself;
but my wife has never been a woman
to think of herself, and she left US
alone. Are they all gomez" he said
eagerly. 'They would not let me
speak. The doctor treated me as if |
was fool; You know | am not a
fool, papa"
Yes, yes, my boy. l know; but you
are i'll, and quiet is SO necessary. You
are not only not fool, Roland, but
you are reasonable and understand.
When you are i'll you must deny
yourself; you must not do everything
that you might do being well.
He waved his thin hand with a sort
of Indignation. "Then, father, 1 am
not ill.," he cried. "Oh, I thought
when you came you would not stop
me,-you would see the sense of it!
What do you think is the matter with
me, all of you? Simson is well
enough, but he is only doctor. What
do you think is the matter with me?
| am no more i'll than you are. A
doctor, of course, he thinks you are
ill the moment he looks at you-that's
what he's there for-and claps you
into bed"
(which is the best place for you at
present, my dear boy"
II made up my mind" cried the
little fellow, ''that | would stand it
till you came home. | said to myself,
| won't frighten mother and the girls.
But now, father" he cried, half jump
ing out of bed, its not illness-it's a
secret"
His eyes shone so wildly, his face
was so swept with strong feeling, that
my heart sank within me. 1t could be
nothing but fever that did it, and
fever had been so fatal | got him
into my arms to put him back into
bed. "Roland," I said, humoring the
poor child, which | knew was the
only way, IF you are going to tell me
this secret to do any good, you know
you must be quite quiet, and not ex-
cite yourself. If you excite yourself,
| must not let you speak"
"Yes, father" said the boy. He
was quiet directly, like man, as if he
quite understood. When | had laid
him back on his pillow, he looked up
at me with that grateful sweet look
with which children, when they are
i'll, break ones heart, the water COM
ing into his eyes in his weakness. Il
was sure as soon as you were here you
would know what to do," he said.
ITO be sure, my boy. Now keer
quiet, and tell it all out like a man.
TO think | was telling lies to my owl
child. for | did it only to humor him
thinking, poor little fellow, his brair
was wrong.
"Yes, father. Father, there is sons
one in the park, k,-some one that ha
been badly used"
Hush, my dear; you remember