any good
that I can see. No, Eyebright dear; it's got to come, and we must make
the best of it. It's God's will I s'pose, and there ain't nothing to
be said when that's the case."

"Oh, dear! how can God will any thing so dreadful?" sobbed Eyebright,
feeling as if she were brought face to face with a great puzzle.
Wealthy could not answer. It was a puzzle to her, also. But she took
Eyebright into her lap, held her close, and stroked her hair gently;
and that helped, as love and tenderness always do.

Some very sad days followed. The doctor came and went. There was a
hush over the house. It seemed wrong to speak aloud even, and
Eyebright found herself moving on tiptoe, and shutting the doors with
anxious care; yet no one had said, "Do not make a noise." Everybody
seemed to be waiting for something, but nobody liked to think what
that something might be. Eyebright did not think, but she felt
miserable. A great cloud seemed to hang over all her bright little
world, so happy till then. She moped about, with no heart to do any
thing, or she sat in the hall outside her mother's door, listening for
sounds. Now and then they let her creep in for a minute to look at
mamma, who lay motionless as if asleep; but Eyebright could not keep
from crying, and after a little while, papa would sign to her to go,
and she would creep out again, hushing her sobs till she was safely
downstairs with the door shut. It was such a melancholy time that I do
not see how she could have got through with it, had it not been for
Genevieve, who, dumb as she was, proved best comforter of all. With
her face buried in the lap of Genevieve's best frock, Eyebright might
shed as many tears as she liked, whispering in the waxen ear how much
she wished that mamma could get well, how good, how very good she
always meant to be if she did, and how sorry she was that she had ever
been naughty or cross to her; especially on that day, that dreadful
day, when she ran off into the woods, the recollection of which
rankled in her conscience like a thorn, Genevieve listened
sympathizingly, but not even her affection could pull out the thorn,
or make its prick any easier to bear.

I do not like to tell about sad things half so well as about happy
ones, so we will hurry over this part of the story. Mrs. Bright lived
only a week after that evening when Eyebright first realized that she
was so much worse. She waked up before she died, kissed Eyebright for
good-by, and said