my ear, 'God will take care of us, Uncle True!'
And when I forgot the sayin', and asked, 'Who will feed and clothe us
now!' she said again, 'The Lord will provide.' And, in my deepest
distress, when one night I was full of anxiety about my child, I said
aloud, 'If I die, who will take care of Gerty?' the little thing that I
supposed was sound asleep in her bed, laid her head down beside me, and
said, 'Uncle True, when I was turned out into the dark street all alone,
and had no friends nor any home, my heavenly Father sent you to me; and
now, if He wants you to come to Him, and is not ready to take me too, He
will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of my life.' After
that, Miss Emily, I gave up worryin' any more. Her words, and the
blessed teachin's of the Holy Book that she reads every day, have sunk
deep into my heart, and I'm at peace.

"I used to think that, if I lived and had my strength spared me, Gerty
would be able to go to school and get a sight o' larnin', for she has a
nateral liking for it, and it comes easy to her. She's but a slender
child, and I never could bear the thought of her bein' driv to hard work
for a livin'; she don't seem made for it, somehow. I hoped, when she
grew up, to see her a school-mistress, like Miss Browne, or somethin' in
that line; but I've done bein' vexed about it now. I know, as she says,
it's all for the best, or it wouldn't be."

Gerty, whose face had been hid against his shoulder, looked up, and said
bravely, "Oh, Uncle True, I'm sure I can do almost any kind of work.
Mrs. Sullivan says I sew very well, and I can learn to be a milliner or
a dressmaker; that isn't hard work."

"Mr. Flint," said Emily, "would you be willing to trust your child with
me? If you should die, would you feel as if she were safe in my charge?"

"Miss Emily," said True, "would I think her safe in angel-keepin'? I
should believe her in little short o' that, if she could have you to
watch over her."

"Oh, do not say that," said Miss Emily, "or I shall fear to undertake so
solemn a trust. I know that my want of sight, my ill-health, and my
inexperience, almost unfit me for the care of a child like Gerty. But,
since you approve of the teaching I have already given her, and are so
kind as to think a great deal better of me than I deserve, I know you
will at least believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her;
and if it will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death
I