"Mr. Flint," said Emily, "would you be willing to trust your child with me? If you should die, would you feel as if she were safe in my charge?"
"Miss Emily," said True, "would I think her safe in angel-keepin'? I should believe her in little short o' that, if she could have you to watch over her."
"Oh, do not say that," said Miss Emily, "or I shall fear to undertake so solemn a trust. I know that my want of sight, my ill-health, and my inexperience, almost unfit me for the care of a child like Gerty. But, since you approve of the teaching I have already given her, and are so kind as to think a great deal better of me than I deserve, I know you will at least believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her; and if it will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death I will gladly take Gerty to my home, see that she is well educated, and, as long as I live, provide for and take care of her, you have my solemn assurance (and here she laid her hand on his) that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability I will try to make her happy."
Gerty's first impulse was to rush towards Emily, and fling her arms around her neck; but she was arrested in the act, for she observed that True was weeping like an infant. In an instant his feeble head was resting upon her bosom; her hand was wiping away the great tears that had rushed to his eyes. It was an easy task, for they were tears of joy—of a joy that had quite unnerved him in his present state of prostration and weakness.
The proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoughts or expectations, that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon; and, after a moment's pause, an idea occurring to him which seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the words—"But your father, Miss Emily!—Mr. Graham!—he's partickler, and not over-young now. I'm afeard he wouldn't like a little gal in the house."
"My father if indulgent to me," replied Emily; "he would not object to any plan I had at heart, and I have become so much attached to Gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort to me. I trust, Mr. Flint, that you will recover a portion, at least, of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many a year yet; but, in order that you may in no case feel any anxiety on her account, I take this opportunity to tell you that, if I should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me."
"Ah, Miss Emily!" said the old man, "my time's about out, I feel right sure o' that; and, since you're willin', you'll soon be called to take charge on her. I haven't forgot how tossed I was in my mind the day after I brought her home with me, with thinkin' that p'raps I wasn't fit to undertake the care of such a little thing, and hadn't ways to make her comfortable; and then, Miss Emily, do you remember you said to me, 'You've done quite right; the Lord will bless and reward you?' I've thought many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your words were, what I thought 'em then, a whisper right from heaven! And now you talk o' doing the same thing yourself; and I, that am just goin' home to God, and feel as if I read his ways clearer than ever afore, I tell you, Miss Emily, that you're doin' right, too; and, if the Lord rewards you as he has done me, there'll come a time when this child will pay you back in love and care all you ever do for her.—Gerty?"
"She's not here," said Emily; "I heard her run into her own room."
"Poor birdie!" said True, "she doesn't like to hear o' my leavin' her; I'm sad to think how some day soon she'll almost sob her heart away over her old uncle. Never mind now! I was goin' to bid her be a good child to you; but I think she will, without biddin'; and I can say my say to her another time. Good-bye, my dear young lady;"—for Emily had risen to go, and George, the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her—"if I never see you again, remember that you made an old man so happy that he's nothing in this world left to wish for; and that you carry with you a dyin' man's best blessin', and his prayer that God may grant such perfect peace to your last days as now He does to mine."
That evening, when True had already retired to rest, and Gerty had finished reading aloud in her little Bible, as she always did at bed-time, True called her to him, and asked her, as he had often done of late, to repeat his favourite prayer for the sick. She knelt at his bedside, and with a solemn and touching earnestness fulfilled his request.