David said to himself that he would be past remembering most things when he should forget what his father had said that day, and all that grew out of it. But he did not tell Miss Bethia so. He would not speak of the sermon, however—he would not go over it as a mere trial of memory; and, besides, it was not to be supposed that the children would listen patiently on this last night, when there was so much to be said. So, after that, the talk was mostly left to the little ones, and wandered away in various directions. Sometimes it was guided past week-day subjects by the mother, and sometimes it was gently checked, but, for the most part, this was not needed. The feeling that it was the last night was on them, and they were very quiet and a little sad.
Miss Bethia was sad, too, and said little. She did not so far forget her duty as to omit her usual words of caution and counsel to each and all; but she did not mete it with her usual decision, and very nearly broke down in the middle of it.
“Aunt Bethia, why don’t you come home with us?” said Polly. “Mamma, why don’t you ask Aunt Bethia to come home and stay with us till next summer?”
“Where should we put her? There is no room in our house,” said the practical Jessie, before her mother could answer.
“That’s so,” said Miss Bethia. “Old as I have got to be, there ain’t room for me in anybody’s house but my own. I guess Debby and I will have to get along the best way we can till next summer, and then you must all come back again.”
“We don’t know what may happen before next year,” said Jessie.
“And it is no good making plans so far ahead,” said Ned.
“And we shall hope to see Miss Bethia before summer, and then we can make our plans. Our house is not very large, Aunt Bethia, but there will always be room enough in it for such a friend as you have been to us all.”
“And you have promised to come, Aunt Bethia,” said Violet.
“If all is well,” said Miss Bethia, gravely.