I sat down and tried to pray for her, silently, in my heart. Who was to go with her on that long journey, and where was it to end?
The woman who had been caring for her now went away, and it was growing dark. I sat still listening to my own heart, which beat till it half choked me.
"What were you and the doctor whispering about?" she suddenly burst out.
"He asked me, for one thing, if you had any friends that could be sent for."
"I've been my own best friend," she returned. "Who'd have raked and scraped and hoarded and counted for Susan Green if I hadn't ha' done it? I've got enough to make me comfortable as long as I live, and when I lie on my dying bed."
"But you can't carry it with you," I said. This highly original remark was all I had courage to utter.
"I wish I could," she cried. "I suppose you think I talk awful. They say you are getting most to be as much of a saint as your ma. It's born in some, and in some it ain't. Do get a light. It's lonesome here in the dark, and cold."
I was thankful enough to enliven the dark room with light and fire. But I saw now that the thin, yellow, hard face had changed sadly. She fixed her two little black eyes on me, evidently startled by the expression of my face.
"Look here, child, I ain't hurt to speak of, am I?"
"The doctor says you are hurt seriously."