“I shall know, child.”
Catharine kissed the hand which had fallen away from her head. She did not comprehend the faith in these last gentle words; but Mrs. Barr went on, smiling wanly upon her through the moonlight.
“Oh yes, dear; I shall know; that will be a part of my blessedness. But now, while we are here and so still, let me tell you what I have done.”
“No, no; do not tell me! it makes this so real,” pleaded Catharine.
“My poor child, it is real.”
“Oh, let me hope not, a little longer—only a little longer.”
“There is a paper in my desk—a will. It is not much, but all I have is yours.”
Catharine began to sob.
“Hush, child, hush! You are my daughter, sent when I needed one most. You have been a good, good child. I love nothing so dear on earth. It is little, but enough to keep you from taking wages of any one. For all that, darling, you must be useful. God made all his creatures for usefulness. Human suffering will want alleviation. You will find duties at every step. Do them well—”
The good woman paused a moment, struggling for breath. This conversation was exhausting her feeble strength. After a little, she spoke again: