Sarah looked about her with some curiosity, noting the bare edges of the floor around the faded strip of cheap carpeting in the centre, the little stand with a white towel over the top, upon which was a lamp and a Bible,—she was glad to see the Bible—the woodcuts from illustrated journals tacked to the walls, and the one straggling geranium in a tin can on the window sill, then examined more closely the girl on the bed.
She was extremely pale, and there were blue shadows about her nose and temples; but the brows were delicately pencilled, the lashes lying against the colorless cheek, thick and long, while the hair, of a brown so light as to be almost yellow, curled naturally around her forehead.
"She is really pretty," thought Sara, "but how thin and blue. And what mere claws her hands are!" looking at the one clutching a corner of the sheet. "Poor girl! I don't believe she is much older than I, but she looks as if she had suffered enough for an old woman. Ah! she's speaking."
The lips were moving, but at first no sound came from them; then she caught one word, "mother," and then a tear rolled from the closed eyes over the white cheeks.
Sara gently wiped it away, thinking pitifully, "Where can her mother be?" and while the thought was impressed upon her face in a look of tenderness and pity, the eyes of the young girl opened wide and gazed into her own.
"Who are—you?" she asked faintly. "An angel?"
Sara smiled.
"No, only a girl like yourself."
"Then I am—not dead?"
"No, indeed: you have been ill, but are better now. Here is something for you to take," placing a spoon to her lips.