Oh, Jack, it's those
dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. Oh,
help me to be strong! Oh, Jack, help me! _help_ me!"
His arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and
his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression
in them.
"I'm so afraid--I'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and
know," he gasped. "Oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something
for me before I lose entire control of myself."
I flew to the table and got him some water; I didn't know what else to
do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made
him wild. Then I fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his
hands. But nothing seemed to help him. And then--God must have put the
thought into my mind--I said suddenly, "Fee, dear, I'm going to sing to
you;" and before he could say no, I began.
At first I could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that
horrid, inward shaking,--but I went right on, and gradually it
got better.
I sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they
came to my mind: First, "O Mother dear, Jerusalem,"--I love that old
hymn!--then, "And now we fight the battle, but then shall win the
crown;" and then, "The Son of God goes forth to war.
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