my mother tended me well through
it. They sold almost every little stick of furniture that was left, to
buy me drink and medicine. By degrees I recovered, and the first evening
I was able to sit up, I noticed a strange, wild brightness in my
mother's eyes, and a hot flush on her thin cheeks--she had taken the
fever.

Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she
brought little Mary over to me: "Take her, Sally," she said--and between
every word she gave the child a kiss--"take her; she's safer with you
than she'd be with me, for you're over the sickness, and 'tisn't long
any way, I'll be with you, my jewel," she said, as she gave the little
creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms.

'Twould take long to tell all about her sickness--how Richard and I, as
good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every
farthing and farthing's worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress
herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family
returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and
every thing we could want.

Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for
death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up
straight in the bed.

"Bring me the child, Sally, _aleagh_," she said. And when I carried
little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was
reading it like a book.

"You won't be long away from me, my own one," she said, while her tears
fell down upon the child like summer-rain.

"Mother," said I, as well as I could speak for crying, "sure you _Know_
I'll do my best to tend her."

"I know you will, _acushla_; you were always a true and dutiful daughter
to me and to him that's gone; but, Sally, there's _that_ in my weeny one
that won't let her thrive without the mother's hand over her, and the
mother's heart for hers to lean against. And now--" It was all she could
say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on my
arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could
not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan
would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbors
came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away.

Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit
at the door, and watch, hour after hour, along the road that her mother
always took coming ho