sunshine, and seemed to turn purple in its splendor. Her companion was a young girl, slender, fair, and rather pale, except that as she listened to the earnest discourse of the matron, the flitting color dyed her cheek for a moment, and then left it pale again. Her slim figure, and girlish proportions, gave a notion of extreme youth and delicacy, and yet her face was of that kind which brings a feeling of trust and repose as you gaze upon it; an idea that, young as she was, there was steadiness and principle to be read there.
“But, dear mamma,” said the girl, “why do you talk in this way? You will soon be about again, and able to see all these things yourself.”
And she gazed with earnest, anxious fondness at the face of her companion, unable to realize that danger could lurk near, or death invade a countenance so healthy, and so invariably cheerful.
“His will be done,” said Mrs. Duncan, raising her eyes, and fixing them on the glowing west. “Life and death are in His hands; but, Hilary, it will neither increase my danger, nor my anxiety, if I give you such directions as may be your help and guide hereafter. It is a great charge, a heavy responsibility which will fall on you, should I be taken from you, but one which will not be laid on you, unless He sees good; and received from Him in a humble, trusting, loving spirit, the event will be blessed. In my weakness and want of faith, I shrink from the idea, sometimes; but I know that all is, all will be right, if you can but believe, and feel it so. Nothing He lays on us is too heavy to bear, if we do not add to it the burden of our own selfish repinings, mistrust, and impatience.”
“Oh! mamma, it can not be best to be without you; such a trial can not be in store for us; for my father too—how could he bear it? and surely be so good, so heavenly-minded, so tender as he is—oh! he can not need affliction; do not talk so, mamma, do not fancy such things; you will do yourself harm by dwelling on it.”
Mrs. Duncan’s eyes filled, and her lip quivered for a minute;
she was silent a little space, and then she spoke again, calmly, firmly, gravely.
“Hilary, ever since I have filled your mother’s place, I have met with the duty and affection of a daughter from you. I came to you when you were too young to understand my claims, but I have never had to complain, so far as our relationship is concerned. Be ever the same! do not now, by giving way to your feelings, make it more difficult for me to control my own. Try to listen to what may be my last wishes.”
Hilary clasped her step-mother’s hand, struggled with her rising tears, swallowed down a sob or two, and then turning quietly round, said—“Go on, dear mother! I will attend, and endeavor to remember.”
“Young as you are, Hilary, I do not fear to trust you, for I know that you have that within you which will lead you right. Experience, indeed, you can not have, and you may mistake sometimes; but with your earnest love of truth, your simplicity, candor, gentleness, and humility, you can not go very far wrong; and I would rather confide my girls to you, than to many an elder head. I know that you will lean on the true, unfailing Support—that you will not trust your own understanding.”