Australian Tales - Setis

and in turning over a waste-paper basket I found a little toy kitten,
Charlie's pretty little pussy as he used to call it, and which he had put to
bed in my paper basket, as I remembered, the very evening before he was
taken ill. The sight of that little simple toy proved to me that I had not
forgotten my darling boy, and that my tears would still flow in spite of
my reason. In fact, sir, I have not forgotten him to this day, nor shall I
ever do so while memory holds her seat. But my sorrow is turned into
joy and gratitude, for I cannot have the shade of a doubt that he is safe in
Heaven, and I shall soon re-unite with him, for the sand in my life's glass
has not long to run. Yes, he is safe, I know; but had he been spared to me
when I so earnestly longed to keep him, how can I tell what sad fate
might have befallen him? It is awfully possible that I might now be
weeping in bitterness over his poor wrecked soul.
“Oh, Mr. Boomerang! depend upon it, it is all right when God takes
our children from us in early life, painful though it be for us to part with
them. It is all right, sir, and more a matter for thanksgiving than for
sorrowful repining, which many parents have owned after the keen edge
of their grief has been worn down, and they are able to see through the
cloud that overshadowed their spirits.
“About two years after Charlie's death, we were blessed with another
bright-eyed boy to fill his place, and our hearts again rejoiced. But I must
allude very briefly to this subject, sir, for reasons which you will shortly
understand. At four years old little David was seized with a dangerous
epidemic, which had carried off many children in Sydney. I was almost
frantic at the idea of losing him, and I never felt so much opposed to the
Almighty's dispensations. I believe I prayed to God unconditionally, to
spare my child, to save myself and my wife the bitter pang of losing him
as we had lost our first-born. He was spared, sir,” continued Mr.
Dovecott with increasing emotion. “He grew up to manhood. I will
forbear to ‘draw his frailties from their dread abode.’ He is dead. He died
a violent death. Oh, God! Oh, God! Would that I had buried him in
infancy! Poor boy! My poor ruined boy!”
The old gentleman was so overcome by the sad recollections of the
untimely death of his son, (who I afterwards learned had committed
suicide), that he could not continue his narrative. I refrained from
inquiries on the distressing subject, and after a few words of sympathy I
bad him good night and went to my chamber, pondering over the
mysterious dispensations of Providence, as displayed in the late touching
recital.
Next morning — rather to my surprise — Mr. Dovecott was almost
merry, but I now ascertained that his cheerfulness was studied, in order
to prevent his wife suspecting the gloomy nature of his conversation on
the previous night. After breakfast I took a pleasant stroll through the
garden with him, when he thus continued his story: —