As Madge sat down by Mrs. Wendall, so intent was the mother's gaze
upon her dead child that she did not at first notice the young girl's
presence. Madge took a thin, toil-worn hand caressingly in both her
own, and then the tearless eyes were turned upon her, and the light
of recognition came slowly into them, as if she were recalling her
thoughts from an immense distance.

"I'm glad you've come," she said, in a loud, strange whisper. "She
wanted you to be with me. She said you had trouble, and would know how
to sustain me. She left a message for you. She said, 'Tell dear Madge
that the dying sometimes have clear vision--tell her I've prayed for
her ever since, and she'll be happy yet, even in this world. Tell her
that I only saw her a little while, but she belongs to those I shall
wait for to welcome.' You'll stay by me till it's all over, won't
you?"

Madge was deeply agitated, but she managed to say distinctly, "Tilly
also said something to me, and I want you to think of her words
through all that is to come. She said, 'Think where I have gone, and
don't grieve a moment.'"

"Yes, I'll come to that by and by; but now I can think of only one
thing--they are going to take away my baby;" and she laid her head
on the still bosom with a yearning in her face which only God, who
created the mother's heart, could understand.

What followed need not be dwelt upon. The mother and father took their
last farewell, the casket was carried to the outer room, the simple
service was soon over, the tearful tributes paid, and then the slow
procession took its way to a little graveyard on a hillside among the
mountains.

"I can't go and see Tilly buried," said Mrs. Wendall, in the same
unnatural whisper. "I will go to her grave some day, but not yet. I
am trying to keep up, but I don't feel that I could stand on my feet a
minute now."

"I'll stay with you till they come back," Madge answered, tenderly;
and at last she was left alone in the house, holding the tearless
mother's hand. She soon bowed her young head upon it, bedewing it with
her tears. The poor woman's deep absorption began to pass away. The
warm tears upon her hand, the head upon her lap, began to waken the
instincts of womanhood to help and console another. She stroked the
dark hair and murmured, "Poor child, poor child! Tilly was right.
Trouble makes us near of kin."

"You loved Tilly, Mrs. Wendall," Madge sobbed. "Think of where she's
gone. No more tears; no m