ONE afternoon, as little Ruth was playing in the streets, on her way home from school, she was accidentally tripped up by another child, and the effect of this fall kept her a prisoner to the house, and led to a serious illness.
Ruth’s parents were poor, and as they had a large family to provide for, Ruth had very few pleasures, but all who visited her were struck by her gentleness and patience. She was a little child, and only four years old, and could therefore not read herself, but was very fond of hearing others do so, and as she had a remarkably good memory, she could repeat almost any hymn she had heard twice.
Ruth never complained, and her sweet smile made visitors think she could not be so ill as she really was. Thus two months passed by; then she grew worse, and for four months she was unable to move.
When the other children were impatient on a wet day, because they could not go out, Ruth would say gently to them, “Look at me, how I have to sit here. I cannot go out at all.”
Pain, I am sorry to say, often kept my little Ruth awake during the latter part of the night. When she tried to move, and her mother asked her if she needed anything, Ruth would answer, “No, mother, I am only tired, and cannot find a resting-place.” Sometimes she would say, “I do not want my toys; they are of no use to me. I want to go to Jesus. I do wish Jesus would come and fetch me.”
One morning, about a month before Ruth died, she told her mother that in a dream she had seen two angels, in white robes and golden girdles, who had come for her. They said, “Ruth, will you go?” and she answered them, very simply, “How can I, for I have only my nightdress on?” However, in her dream, she went with them to a beautiful place.
Shortly before her death, her mother was reminded of Ruth’s dream by the child unfastening her nightdress with one hand, and stretching out the other, as if to take what someone she saw was waiting to give her. So she went away to the happy land where there are sweet pleasures, and all that makes children glad.
During her last three days she could not sleep. Just a few hours before her death, seeing her mother cry, she whispered, “Do not cry, mother, I am going to Jesus.”
“You are sorry to leave me, Ruthie, are you not?” asked her mother. “Yes, mother,” she replied; “but we cannot all go at one time.”
Then she stretched out her little hand and smiled. Her mother asked if she needed anything, but she shook her head at each thing mentioned. At last she said, “Do you want to kiss me, darling?” The child nodded, and smiled again, and, as she kissed her mother, the latter said, “That is the last kiss, my darling. You are going to Jesus, Ruthie.”