May followed it awhile with her eyes, and then ran up to her sister.
"Amy, you're better, much better!" cried the affectionate child. "I know you'll soon be quite well."
"What makes you think so?" asked Amy.
"Oh your eyes are so bright, and you look so happy—happier than you ever have looked since mother died, and Silas went off to sea."
"I am happy, I was having such pleasant thoughts," said Amy.
"I daresay you was telling yourself a nice story, such as you used to tell me," observed May, "about our being very rich and grand, and wearing—oh I such fine clothes! Very different from this old thing!" added the child, laughing, as she touched her father's fustian jacket, which lay across Amy's knee.
The sick girl had been attempting to put a patch on one of the sleeves, but the weight even of an old garment wearied her wasted arms, and she had put it down on her lap.
"I was thinking of royal robes—white and shining, like those beautiful clouds up yonder," said Amy, softly, "and crowns all glittering like the dew on the grass, when the sun is shining upon it."
"For us to wear?" asked May.
"Yes, for us to wear," replied Amy; and again that expression of peace and joy which, had struck her little sister before, lighted up the sick girl's sunken features.