“Well, I thought, that, though I loved her so dearly, I almost wished she would die while I was there.”
“Why, Cicely!” says I. “Why-ee! what did you wish that for? and thinkin' so much of your aunt as you do.”
“Well, you know how mother and aunt Mary loved each other, how near they were to each other. Why, mother could always tell when aunt Mary was ill or in trouble, and she was just the same in regard to mother. And I can't think that when death has freed the soul from the flesh, that they will have less spiritual knowledge of each other than when they were here; and I felt, that with such a love as theirs, death would only make their souls nearer: and you know what the Bible says,—that 'God shall make of his angels ministering spirits;' and I know He would send no other angel but my mother, to dear aunt Mary's bedside, to take her spirit home. And I thought, that, if I were there, my mother would be there right in the room with me; and I didn't know but I might feel her presence if I could not see her. And I do want my mother so sometimes, aunt Samantha,” says she with the tears comin' into them soft brown eyes. “It seems as if she would tell me what to do for the boy—she always knew what was right and best to do.”
Says I to myself, “For the land's sake, what won't Cicely think on next?” But I didn't say a word, mind you, not a single word would I say to hurt that child's feelin's—not for a silver dollar, I wouldn't.
I only says, in calm accents,—
“Don't for mercy's sake, child, talk of seein' your mother now.”
She looked far off into the shinin' western heavens with that deep, searchin', but soft gaze,—seemin' to look clear through them cloudy mansions of rose and pearl,—and says she,—