Be comforted. I wish to live. I will live if I can. Ah,
what could she do without me!... Does she often speak of me?--but I know
she does."

"Oh, all the time--all the time!"

"My sweet child! She wrote the note the moment she came home?"

"Yes--the first moment. She would not wait to take off her things."

"I knew it. It is her dear, impulsive, affectionate way. I knew it
without asking, but I wanted to hear you say it. The petted wife knows
she is loved, but she makes her husband tell her so every day, just for
the joy of hearing it.... She used the pen this time. That is better;
the pencil-marks could rub out, and I should grieve for that. Did you
suggest that she use the pen?"

"Y--no--she--it was her own idea."

The mother looked her pleasure, and said:

"I was hoping you would say that. There was never such a dear and
thoughtful child!... Aunt Hannah?"

"Dear Margaret?"

"Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her. Why--you
are crying again. Don't be so worried about me, dear; I think there is
nothing to fear, yet."

The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered it
to unheeding ears. The girl babbled on unaware; looking up at her with
wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever, eyes in which was no
light of recognition:

"Are you--no, you are not my mother. I want her--oh, I want her! She was
here a minute ago--I did not see her go. Will she come? will she come
quickly? will she come now?... There are so many houses ... and they
oppress me so... and everything whirls and turns and whirls... oh, my
head, my head!"--and so she wandered on and on, in her pain, flitting
from one torturing fancy to another, and tossing her arms about in a
weary and ceaseless persecution of unrest.

Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the hot brow,
murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking the Father of all
that the mother was happy and did not know.

CHAPTER VI

Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave, and
daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her radiant
health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage was also now
nearing its end. And daily they forged loving and cheery notes in the
child's hand, and stood by with remorseful consciences and bleeding
hearts, and wept to see the grateful mother devour them and adore them
and treasure them away as things beyond price, because of thei