I could not talk about this, and how was I to prepare for it? I should never love her less, and could I ever bear to lose her, or realize how it would be without her? "Over there" was so far beyond me, I could only think and sigh and wait; but the symptoms of which Aunt Hildy spoke I noticed afterward, and it was true her eyelids seemed more transparent, and her eyes had a watery light.
I knew she was weak, and since the snow had fallen was chilled more easily than before, and had ventured out but little. I did not desire to pain Louis, but feeling uneasy, could not rest until I talked with him, and he said his heart had told him the little mother would leave us ere long. "If she lives till the fall, we will go down and see Southern Mary, if we can." Little Emily clung very closely to Clara, and if I had not insisted on having the care of her, I believe she never would have asked for me. Mother said we should spoil her, and Ben declared she "would make music for us by and by." Ben was still interested in his work, and as busy as a bee the long days through.
"Thirty-three years old," I said to him, "are you never to be married?"
"Guess not," he would reply laughingly, "I can't see how Hal could get on without me, and I, in my turn, need John. What a splendid fellow he is! They all like him around us here, and I believe I shall sell out the mill to him and buy another farm to take care of. He handles logs as easily as if they were matches. He is a perfect giant in strength."
"Yes, I know, Ben, but he never will live in a saw-mill. John is destined to be a public man; he will have calls and by and bye will stand in the high places and pour forth his eloquence. He may buy a saw-mill, but he will never keep himself in it, no matter how hard he tries."
"So my cake is all dough, you think, so be it, sister mine;" and baby Emily received a bear hug from Uncle Ben, who, a moment later, was walking thoughtfully over the hill.
The eighteenth of March was a cold day, extraordinarily so, tempestuous and stormy. Louis had been in Boston three days, and we thought the winds were gathering a harsh welcome for his return. His visits to Boston were getting to be quite frequent nowadays, for he had found some warm friends there, who had introduced themselves by letter, and now they were making united efforts to found a home for children,—foundlings who were to be kept and well cared for, until opportunities were presented to place them with kind people in good homes. He was getting on wonderfully, and I could hardly wait for the news he would bring to us.
He came at last, and with him an immense square package looking in shape very like a large mirror or a painting, and I wondered what it could be. Baby Emily had to be saluted cordially, and both her little arms were entwined around his neck.
"Now, now, little lady," said Louis, "go to thy royal mother, I have something to show thee," and taking off the wrappings of the mysterious package, he placed two life-size portraits before us, saying as he did so:
"Companion pieces, my life's saving angels—behold yourself, my Emily, see my fairy mother," and sure enough there we were. A glance at Clara caused me to exclaim: