"I don't mean the street-lamps."
"What do you mean, my child?" said Emily, coming towards the window, and lightly resting a hand on Gertrude's shoulders.
"I mean the stars, dear Miss Emily. Oh, how I wish you could see them, too!"
"Are they very bright?"
"O, they are beautiful! and there are so many! The sky is as full as it can be."
"How well I remember when I used to stand at this very window, and look at them as you are doing now! It seems to me as if I saw them this moment, I know so well how they look."
"I love the stars—all of them," said Gertrude; "but my own star I love the best."
"Which do you call yours?"
"That splendid one over the church-steeple; it shines into my room every night, and looks me in the face. Miss Emily (and she spoke in a whisper), it seems to me as if that star were lit on purpose for me. I think Uncle True lights it every night. I always feel as if he were smiling up there, and saying, 'See, Gerty, I'm lighting the lamp for you.' Dear Uncle True! Miss Emily, do you think he loves me now?"
"I do, indeed, Gertrude; and I think, if you make him an example, and try to live as good and patient a life as he did, that he will really be a lamp to your feet, and as bright a light to your path as if his face were shining down upon you through the star."