“God is good, my child, and still I must leave you. Mother would not tell you any thing that was not so. You believe me, Marston?”
“I believe you, mother,” I cried passionately, “but I cannot let you go; if you go, I must go with you.”
“No, Marston, you must stay to take care of Jennie and your father. Jennie is such a little girl, what would become of her without you?”
“Will it make you happier, mother, if I take care of Jennie?” and I kissed her white cheeks again and again.
“Yes, my son, I shall be very happy if you will promise to be a good boy, and take care of your little sister for Christ and for me.”
“I will promise; I will be good, mother,” and my tears were dried.
Invested with a new dignity as the protector of my little sister, I must be a man; and I took up Jennie and fed her from the one little china bowl that remained to us of our old home.
Weary with the effort of talking, my mother fell asleep, looking so calm and placid; while I rocked the baby, and watched her quiet breathing.
Presently a neighbor came in, and bending over the bed asked how long she had been sick.
“Two weeks,” I answered.