Upon that I reminded her of her words to Lotty on the previous evening, saying how much the thought of a separation distressed me, and begging her to tell me where she was going to and for what reason, whether on a visit or for change of air.
She did not immediately speak, and I heard her suppress a sigh as, putting her arm round me, she drew me slowly to her side and fondly pressed her lips to my cheek. This silent action spoke volumes to my already trembling heart. An intolerable sensation of anguish, as on the preceding night, came down upon me like lead, oppressing my very breathing. She had confessed nothing, but yet I now felt, felt for a certainty, that I knew all—knew that my worst apprehensions were correct, that death was the coming separation.
Presently she spoke; her voice was a little unsteady, but low and calm: "My beloved child, remember that not a sparrow falls without the will of our heavenly Father. Whatever happens to his servants, whether of outward weal or woe, is certain to be for the best."
"You never said you were ill," I answered, in choking words. "Oh, aunt, why did you not tell me before?"
"Until quite lately I was quite ignorant of the seriousness of my complaint. Even Dr. Manfred was misled by delusive appearances, and believed that I should recover; but God in his wisdom sees fit to ordain it otherwise, and his will be done!" Again she lovingly kissed my cheek, and I unconsciously drew myself away and sat up. A feeling as though I had been stunned half bewildered me. By degrees this passed off, and then, oh how changed everything seemed to me! The brightness of the sun and the flowers, the scented air, the glad voice of birds and brook, were all now but as a hollow mockery of happiness, and I marvelled how they could look and sound so joyous while I felt so unutterably miserable.
At this instant Blurdon came by with his spade on his broad shoulder, and gave me a quick, defiant glance. Something in my face—the impress, I suppose, of the dreary feeling of woe which possessed my whole being—caused him to look again and almost stop.
"You must find this very hot weather for working," aunt said in her kind, winning voice.
"What's the matter with her?" he returned for answer, stopping and indicating myself with a jerk of his thumb.
Aunt hesitated for an instant, and then said: "In common with all human beings, my little girl finds it very difficult and painful sometimes to submit her will to that of her heavenly Father."
"Why, what's she been a-doing of? What harm can the likes of such a soft little creature as that do?" he growled, eyeing me with a perplexed and perplexing stare, for was it possible that this wild, savage, strange man felt sorry for me? And yet I thought he looked as if he did.