"What is it?" asked Madge, bewildered, and but half comprehending.
"Your mother is in a better world, I hope, my child," said Letty, taking her in her arms. "God has taken her to himself."
The grief of Madge was very bitter. She had always loved her mother, despite her neglect and coldness; and the last few weeks had greatly deepened the affection. It seemed as if she could not let her mother go without her.
"Oh, if I could only go too!" she sobbed. "What is the use of my staying here when they are all gone,—grandmother, and mother, and little Herbert, and all? Why can't I go with them?"
"My love," said Letty, "God will let you go when his time comes. If he keeps you in this world, it is because he has work for you to do which no one else could do as well."
"But I cannot do any thing," said Madge. "Such as I am are of no use to any one."
"That is a mistake," said Letty. "A great deal of good has been done by just such as you. I expect you will help me in teaching Una and Jack, if your father allows you to come and live with us."
"I hope he will," said Madge. "But what will father do when he comes home and finds that mother is dead?"
Letty could not guess what he would do. She had a presentiment of a terrible scene, and exerted herself to get Madge to bed and to sleep, at the top of the house, before there was a possibility of her father's arrival. She succeeded better than she expected. Madge was worn out with grief and excitement, and her year at Dr. Woodman's had taught her to be docile to authority: so that Letty soon had the satisfaction of seeing her sound asleep.
Mary and the servants had by this time finished the last solemn duties to the dead. Letty was preparing to go home to her children; and she and John were standing looking at the quiet sleeper who would never again be disturbed, when the front door was noisily opened, and some one was heard speaking in a thick, indistinct way.