“Happy, so happy—always remember that. My only trouble a separated family. One half in heaven, the other on earth. One day to be reunited. You will cherish each other after I am gone—you precious ones on earth—Roger?”
The young man nodded, and bent his head low over the oars.
“And Tom,” said Grandma, with exquisite sweetness, “my third grandson, you will take care of Berty?” Tom tried to speak, failed, tried again, but Grandma knew the significance of his hoarse, inarticulate murmur. Then he averted his gaze from the heart-breaking sight of Berty at her grandmother’s feet. The despairing girl had clasped them to her breast. Grandma was more to her than any of them. How could he comfort her for such a loss?
“Come, come,” said Grandma, cheerily, “our parting is but for a little. See, my child, my spirit is growing brighter and brighter. It has outgrown this poor old worn-out body. Berty, lift your head, and look your grandmother once more in the eyes.”
After some delay, Berty, in mute, anguished silence did as she was bid.
“Some day,” said Grandma, firmly, “your own sturdy limbs will fail you. You will fly from them as from a discarded burden, and come to rejoin your mother and grandmother in the sky. Let me hear you speak. Will you be brave?”
Still in dumb, tearless sorrow, the girl shook her head.
“Is this the child I have brought up?” asked Grandma, with some faintness. “Have I been unsuccessful? Where is your strength in the hour of trial?”
Berty clasped her hands to her side. “Grandma,” she said, slowly, and as if each word were wrung from her. “I will be brave, I will not forget what you have told me.”
“Keep your own family together, and keep the welfare of the children of the city next your heart,” said Grandma, with new strength, “so you will be blessed in your own soul.”