“You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left.”
Elizabeth said nothing to this.
“Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won’t be a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do, however, till my time comes.”
There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.
“It will not be to-night,” said she softly. Then she sat down again.
“Cousin,” said she gravely in a little, “you are not worrying about your father, as though it may—not be well with him now?”
Elizabeth looked at her startled.
Betsey went on:
“I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge himself on the Lord’s side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them.”
Elizabeth’s face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.