"Miss Gray," said Mary, "am I going to die?" She looked wistfully in Rachel's face, and the beseeching tone of her young childish voice seemed to pierce Rachel's heart; but she had began; could not, she dared not go back. She rose, she clasped her hands, she trembled from head to foot, tears streamed down her cheek; her voice faltered so that she could scarcely speak, but she mastered it, clear and distinct the words came out. "Mary, we must all obey the will of God; we came into this world at His will, at His will we must leave it."
"And must I leave it, Miss Gray?" asked Mary, persisting in her questioning like a child.
Rachel stooped over her; the fast tears poured from her face on Mary's pale brow, "yes, my darling," she said softly, "yes, you must leave this miserable earth of trouble and sorrow, and go to God your friend and your father."
The weakest, the frailest creatures often rise to heroic courage. This fretful, pettish child heard her sentence with some wonder, but apparently without sorrow.
"Don't cry, Miss Gray," she said, "I don't cry; but do you know, it seems so odd that I should die, doesn't it now?"
Rachel did not reply, nor did she attempt it; her very heart was wrung.
Mary guessed, or saw it.
"I wish you would not fret," she said, "I wish you would not. Miss Gray. I don't, you see."
"Ay," thought Rachel, "you do not, my poor child, for what do you know of death?" And a little while after this, Mary, who felt heavy, fell asleep with her hand in that of Rachel Gray.
CHAPTER XX.
Three days had passed.