When I had locked the front door, and was creeping up here to my room, my foot crushed something, and a faint, wounded perfume came up. It was the little pink and purple chain.
XVI.
October 17.
“The Lord God a’mighty help us! but His ways are past finding out. What with one thing and another thing, that child without a mother, and you with the crape not yet rusty for Mr. Roy’l, it doos seem to me as if His manner of treating folks beats all! But I tell you this, Miss Mary, my dear; you jest say your prayers reg’lar and stick to Him, and He’ll pull you through, sure!”
This was what Phœbe said when I told her.
November 8.
To-night, for the first time, Auntie fairly gave up trying to put Faith to bed. She had insisted on it until now, crawling up by the banisters like a wounded thing. This time she tottered and sank upon the second step. She cried out, feebly; “I am afraid I must give it up to Cousin Mary. Faith!”—the child clung with both hands to her,—“Faith, Faith! Mother’s little girl!”
It was the last dear care of motherhood yielded; the last link snapped. It seemed to be the very bitterness of parting.
I turned away, that they might bear it together, they two alone.
19th.