"May I go to sleep again? Who knows me here?" and again she fell asleep. By this time Aunt Hildy appeared on the scene, and commanded me to go home and stay there.
"'Tain't no place for you; I've brought my herbs to stay and doctor her. You go home and help your mother." I obeyed, of course, and when I left, kissed the white forehead of the poor girl, and sealed it with a tear that fell.
She murmured: "Yes, all for love,—home, pictures, mother,—all left for love, and the baby's dead. I'm going there."
I went out into the crisp air with Louis' arm for support, and a thousand strange thoughts whirling in my brain. "Great, indeed, must have been the sorrow which could have driven so tender a plant from home."
"Yes," said Louis, "God pity the man whose ruthless hand has killed the blossoms of her loving heart. She looks like little mother, Emily."
"So she does, Louis." And we talked earnestly, forgetting everything but this strange, sweet face. Supper was ready, and the rest were at the table.
"What have you been up to?" said Ben, "you look like two tombstones." I related briefly the history, and concluded by saying:
"She looks as frail as a flower." To which Mr. Benton added:
"Doubtless her frailty, Miss Minot, is the cause of her present suffering."
"Poor lamb," said Clara, "how thankful we should feel that Matthias found her."