An eminent Christian worker in New York, told me a story that affected me very much.
A father had a son who had been sick some time, but he did not consider him dangerous; until one day he came home to dinner and found his wife weeping, and he asked, "What is the trouble?"
"There had been a great change in our boy since morning," the mother said, "and I am afraid that he is dying; I wish you to go in and see him, and, if you think he is, I wish you to tell him so, for I cannot bear to tell him."
The father went in and sat down by the bedside, and he placed his hand upon his forehead, and he could feel the cold, damp sweat of death, and knew its cold, icy hand was feeling for the chords of life, and that his boy was soon to be taken away, and he said to him:
"My son, do you know you are dying?"
The little fellow looked up at him and said:
"No; am I? Is this death that I feel stealing over me father?"
"Yes, my son, you are dying."
"Will I live that day out?"
"No; you may die at any moment."
He looked up to his father and he said; "Well, I will be with Jesus to-night, won't I, father?"
And the father answered: "Yes my boy, you will spend to-night with the Savior," and the father turned away to conceal the tears, that the little boy might not see him weep; but he saw the tears, and he said:
"Father, don't you weep for me; when I get to heaven I will go straight to Jesus and tell Him that ever since I can remember, you have tried to lead me to Him."
account by D. L. Moody
