"Yes, yes, I suppose so. Do you know that mother is very ill?"
"Yes, Miss Stella."
"Do you think she is going to die?"
Sarah hesitated. Her plain honest face was red, her eyelids were swollen with weeping. The child repeated her question.
"I think Jesus is going to take her home," Sarah answered simply.
"Home! To heaven, do you mean? But I don't believe mother loves Jesus!"
"Oh, my dear, perhaps the dear Lord's teaching her now; it's never too late with Him, Miss Stella. His love is from everlasting to everlasting. I begged leave to see her just now, and she looks—oh! I can't explain—but she looks as though she was at peace. Dr. Knight's with her still, and so is Sister Ellen. There, there, darling, don't cry!" for Stella was weeping quietly. "When my mother died I felt it dreadfully, so, my dear, I know what you feel!"
"Did you love your mother very much?" Stella asked.
"Better than any one in the world. She was very poor, and she slaved from morning to night to bring us up properly. Father—well, he drank, and she had everything on her shoulders, poor dear!"
"But, Sarah, supposing your mother hadn't been always kind to you— supposing she had not cared for you much?" Then, as the maid was silent, "I think in some ways it must be nicer to be poor. When people are rich I don't think they have time to love each other!"