"Mother, look up, mother, I am going." The woman turned heavily and lifted her head. "I am going, mother."
"Very well, I can't help it," muttered the mother, heavily.
"I don't know where they will take us, or if we shall ever see one another again," persisted the child; "but, oh, mother before we part, tell me how I can make you love me?"
"If there is a drop of brandy anywhere about, bring it and I'll love you dearly, indeed I will, little Mary; I ain't at all well, Mary, and a drop of brandy is good for sickness; get some, that's a dear; I'm very fond of you, Mary!"
"Mother, I cannot; but, if you will never ask for it again, I will. Oh, I will die for you; I hav'n't anything but my life to give—nor that," she added, with a sudden thought, "for it belongs to God; I have nothing."
Mrs. Fuller had fallen asleep, and heard nothing of this. So Mary turned away sorrowful, but not altogether hopeless. Those who trust in God never are.
CHAPTER XIX.
A SPRING MORNING—AND A PAUPER BURIAL.
Not here—not here with our lovely dead—
Oh, give one spot of sacred earth!
Where the grass may wave, above her head,
And the sweet, wild flowers have holy birth.
Oh, grant our prayer—our solemn prayer—
A lonely grave—and fresh, green sod—
There is earth around us everywhere;
And the mother earth belongs to God.