The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.
After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage, spoke.
"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you something which she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know. She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return to you. But you will one day go to her."
Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother is going—"
"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow of death, yet she fears no evil. You—and I and all who love you and her—are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to the Unknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"
"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She is all I have—all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.
Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed for some minutes. Then she said gently:
"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom be free from pain. Besides, it is God's will."
"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.
Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child's hope was in a Comforter greater than herself.