Miss Lane was silent a moment, and the children heard her sigh. But she proceeded:
“So the summer and winter days went on, and papa began to walk feebly and to look pale: he coughed, too, and ceased to run and play with me as he had formerly done; and once or twice Dr. Lee came to see him. I knew nothing of sickness, and death seemed like something far off in the future, that had come to my mother, I knew, but I fancied it could not approach papa or me. The years that stretched far before me, seemed unending, and I had never dreamed of a life without papa. He was as my life. Never for one day had I been out of his sight: he seemed a part of me.
“It came upon me very suddenly, that I might lose my dear father. I was sitting in the library one afternoon, partly hidden by the curtain of the window, reading; and I had been quiet so long that, I suppose, papa had forgotten I was in the room. I remember it all quite as well as if it had been yesterday. Dr. Lee came in, and he and papa began to talk. I did not quite understand at first; but when Dr. Lee said:
“‘You’ll never get well—there’s no physician on earth can cure you; but you may prolong your life by going abroad,’ it all came upon me. My heart seemed to stand still. I peeped out, panting, from my screen, and saw the dear, mild face, with the settled paleness and gravity on its features which I had ever seen there, the tall figure a little bent, the beautiful hair growing gray about the temples; and, as the doctor spoke, his hollow cough began to sound through the room: and then I knew he must leave me! The word of doom had gone forth.
“I rushed from the room, I ran up stairs, thinking only to hide myself from the sunshine and from everything. Oh! my dear, dear father—how could I bear it? I lay on the floor in agony, sobbing and thinking God would not leave me so alone, till I grew quiet from the very intensity of my suffering; and when I lifted my head, throbbing with pain, the darkness was resting upon the room, and shadows were flickering on the wall.
“I half fancied I must have been asleep, and it was all a horrible dream: but in a moment, the anguish and heartache returned, and, fleeing as if from some awful presence of grief, I sped down stairs again. I reached the door and put my hand upon the knob. But my heart failed me—I could not open it. I heard a step—a slow, feeble step. A thrill of piercing sorrow made me shudder—for how long was I to hear that step?—and then I opened the door.
“Papa turned round, and I stood quite still. He saw my face and my tears, I suppose, for he stopped and held out his hands—and, in a moment, I threw myself on his breast, only able to cry as if my soul were leaving my body,
“‘Oh, papa, papa, papa!’
“‘Poor, poor Mary,’ he said, smoothing my hair, and pressing me tightly in his arms, and kissing my cheek till I grew quiet. I looked up at last—he was there with me—I held his hand, his eyes were just as kind—he was alive—he spoke to me, my great love must keep him—I put my arms round him as if I would never let him go—and resolved to die when he died—never, never to loose myself from him. Surely, surely, I could keep him, I thought. God must know how dreary the world would be to me without him.
“Papa was so calm that I began to lose my fear at last, and to think it was not true; when, as I lifted my face to kiss him, there dropped on my cheeks two bitter, awful, man’s tears. I shrank back affrighted. I bit my lips to keep from screaming. I clasped my father as if I must grow to him, and began to gasp and sob as if my heart was broken. Those tears touched me, I have no words to tell how much.