But as she grew
tall, Alice was not so strong; the child who, when she was nine years old,
had "climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn"--running on before
all the rest, until the guide called her his mountain-goat, and actually
getting first to the top of the mountain--when she was about seventeen,
began to fade like a flower, and to grow weaker and weaker day by
day. [Footnote: _The Master's Home Call_. Memorials of Alice Frances
Bickersteth, by her father.]
Her parents sorrowfully took her from place to place, hoping that fresh air
might give new life to their child, and bring back the roses to her pale
cheeks. But nothing made her better, and at last, when they brought her
home again from the seaside, her father thought the time had come to tell
Alice that the doctors all said the same thing; she might live a few months
longer, but she would never, never be well and strong again, for she was
not only very ill, but dying.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN PEAKS.]
It was lovely bright summer weather; you would have thought the sunshine
and the soft air would have made anyone well, as Alice lay on the sofa
while her dear father read to her. They had been reading the Epistle to the
Philippians, and when they came to the verse where the Apostle Paul says,
that to him "to die is gain," and to that other verse which speaks of
departing "to be with Christ, which is far better," though he could hardly
speak for tears, he told her just what the doctors had said.
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