I had seen dragged along the ground--something that sighed, that
groaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to me. He was not dead;
he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be
ordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not
only to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begun
by trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with people
struck by God's hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; and
when he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. He had
strength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; he
heard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly and
fondly comforted him.

"'Maria,' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise.' He spent his last breath
in faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, my
Frank was with God.

"And that," she went on, "happened thirty years ago. I have suffered
since. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities. Soft,
amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evil
spirits they would have made demons; as for me, I have only been a
woe-struck and selfish woman."

"You have done much good," I said; for she was noted for her liberal
almsgiving.

"I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuage
affliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But I
think from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, to
prepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frank
more than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving the
creature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least
blasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do you
think, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me."

This question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if she
thought I _had_ answered it.

"Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but not
always for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whatever it
be, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well,
to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to
do something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I am
dead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Go to
bed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how late I,
in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxiety for