could hear her breathing. Far into the night I would lie
awake and watch the dying embers on the hearth, and the light growing
fainter upon the walls, and listen for any sound of change.

Each morning she rose at the same hour, dressed with the same care, and
sought to follow the old, familiar routine; but she did not demur when
I placed her in her chair and assumed the air and authority of
commander-in-chief.

"I must work while it is day, love," she said, smiling up at me in the
way which always provoked a caress.

"Martha, Martha," I always replied, "thou art anxious and troubled
about many things: but one thing is needful, and that in your case is
rest."

She drew my head on to her breast one day as I said this for the
hundredth time--I had knelt down upon the rug, and mockingly held her
prisoner--and she said very, very softly:

"Grace love, I am going to give in. The voice within tells me you are
right, and I do not fret. 'In quietness and in confidence shall be
your strength.' It is because I am so strong in spirit that I do not
recognise how weak I am in body; but I think, love, I am beginning to
realise it now. And as I have you to look after me I have much to
thank God for. Do you know, Grace love, I am sure the Lord sent you to
Windyridge for my sake. It is wonderful how He makes things work
together for the good of many. He knew this poor old Martha would soon
need somebody to pet her and look after her, so he sent you to be an
angel of comfort."

"Well," I said, as cheerfully as I could with my spirit in chains, "He
has paid me good wages, and I have a royal reward. Why, my own cup is
filled to overflowing, 'good measure, pressed down, running
over'--isn't that the correct quotation? I wouldn't have missed these
twelve months of Mother-Hubbardism for a king's ransom."

She pressed my head still more closely to her. "Are you very busy this
morning, love?" she asked. "I feel that I can talk to you just now if
you have time to listen, and it will do me good to speak."

It had come at last, and I braced myself to meet it. "What have you
got to say to me, motherkin? Speak on. I am very comfy, and my work
will wait."

"Yes, love," she said--and it was so unlike her to acquiesce so readily
that my heart grew heavier still--"work can wait, but the tide of life
waits for no man, and there is something I want to say before the flood
bears me away."

"Are you feeling worse, dear?" I asked;