"My days are numbered, Mr. Fletcher," she said in a tone of much sweetness and resignation. "Ellen does not know the truth; I have kept it from her. Dear child, she has had enough to bear. She has nursed me for years, and does not see the signs which I feel are unmistakable and irrevocable. When the blow comes, she will suffer terribly; it would be cruel to destroy the peace we are now enjoying. It is peace, blessed, blessed peace—peace and rest; and I wait with patience, and with infinite confidence in the will of the Supreme. I think it will come soon, and as the dear friend whom God sent to us in our darkest hour, I wished you to know. Do not think it is an old woman speaking to you out of her fears. I do not fear death. There is a hereafter, and I shall see my dear child again when her time comes. I should welcome the hour when I am summoned were it not for my darling and for the grief in store for her."
"You are not old," I said in a low tone, "and there is still hope. Ellen tells me you are only forty-five."
"Yes, I know, I know, but my sands are run, and there is no appeal."
And, indeed, as I looked at her I felt there was none; death was in her face, which, in her daughter's presence, ordinarily wore a smile.
"There is no hope, Mr. Fletcher; the most skillful medical advice would not avail me now. What mortal could do for me you have done; you have prolonged my life, and I am inexpressibly grateful to you. Has Ellen told you we have no relatives?"
"No."
"We have none. Ellen will be left alone, to battle with the world."
"Not while I have life, Mrs. Cameron." She stretched forth her trembling hand, and the expression on her face was that of an angel in the act of blessing.
"Oh, dear friend, dear friend!" she murmured, and the tears ran down her cheeks. "God sent you to us—truly, truly!"
"It was for this assurance you sent for me."