Francis, frightened by the storm, had hidden himself in his mother's bed, and fallen asleep; awaked by the thunder, he had not dared to move, fearing it announced the arrival of the savages; but at last, the cries of his brothers roused him, and raising his pretty fair head, supposing his mother sleeping, he flung his arms round her neck, saying, "Wake, mamma, we are all here,--papa, my brothers, and the storm, too, which is very beautiful, but frightens me.
Open your eyes, mamma; look at the bright lightning, and kiss your little Francis." Either his sweet voice, or the cries of her elder children, restored her faculties: she gradually recovered, and called me to her.

The excess of my joy threatened to be almost as fatal as my grief.

With difficulty I controlled my own feelings and those of my boys; and, after I had sent them from the bed, I ascertained that she was not only really living, but much better.

The pulse was calm, and the fever had subsided, leaving only a weakness that was by no means alarming.

I relinquished, joyfully, the intention of bleeding her, the necessity of which I had trembled to contemplate, and contented myself with employing the boys to prepare a cooling mixture, composed of the juice of the lemon, of barley, and tamarinds, which they completed to the great satisfaction of their mother.