"I cannot survive it, Abby, I cannot," faintly sighed Miss Murray; "a friend—"
"The best friends must part, Ma'am."
"A friend, Abby, who understood my constitution so well. Abby, who is that?"
"Please, Ma'am," said Sarah, leading me in, "Mr. O'Reilly will take it so kind if you—"
"You need not mention it, Sarah, I understand; the subject is a painful one. You may leave the dear child to me. I am sure she will forbear to distress me, in my weak state, by unavailing regrets. No one can have more cause than I have, to regret the invaluable friend to whom I owe years of existence."
"She doesn't cry!" said Abby, looking at me.
"She never cries," emphatically observed Sarah; "that child is dreadful proud, Ma'am."
"She is quite right," gravely remarked Miss Murray; "tears are most injurious to the system. Come here, my dear, and sit by me."
She pointed to a low stool near her chair. I did not move. Sarah had to lead me to it; as I sat down apathetically, she made a mysterious sign to the lady.
"Not insane, surely?" exclaimed Miss Murray, wheeling off her chair with sudden alarm and velocity.