“Do you suffer?” questioned Catharine.
“A little, but that is nothing; I want to talk to you, my good child, not of myself—all is right with me, but what will the world have for you when I am gone?”
“Nothing.”
When that one pathetic word fell from Catharine’s lips, she covered her face with both hands, and began to cry, not noisily, but with a hush of grief all the more touching from its stillness.
“You must go away, Catharine.”
“Yes, my friend,” answered Catharine, meekly; “tell me what I must do in your sweet wisdom; God will guide me to follow it.”
“There will be new people coming. You are young and very, very pretty, my child; too young, and far too beautiful for a place like this. Some way will be opened, take it. Seek quietness and protection. Some day your husband will come back.”
“Oh, say that again, Mother Barr—once more; from those dear lips it seems like a holy promise.”
“It is a holy promise, or God would not have sent it so clearly to my mind at the last.”
“I will believe it—I do believe it. Oh, if you could only live to know.”