But Sadie only laughed merrily, and said "You are growing sentimental,
Ester, as sure is the world. How can I make any such promise as that?
I shall probably chatter to you like a magpie instead of reading any
thing."
This young girl utterly ignored so far as was possible the fact of Ester's illness, never allowing it to be admitted in her presence that there were any fears as to the result. Ester had ceased trying to convince her, so now she only smiled quietly and repeated her petition.
"Will you promise, Sadie?"
"Oh yes, I'll promise to go to the mountains of the moon on foot and alone, across lots—any thing to amuse you. You're to be pitied, you see, until you get over this absurd habit of cuddling down among the pillows."
So a few days thereafter she received with much apparent glee the dainty sealed letter addressed to herself, and dropped it in her writing-desk, but ere she turned the key there dropped a tear or two on the shining lid.
Well, as the long, hot summer days grew longer and fiercer, the invalid drooped and drooped, and the home faces grew sadder. Yet there still came from time to time those rallying days, wherein Sadie confidently pronounced her to be improving rapidly. And so it came to pass that so sweet was the final message that the words of the wonderful old poem proved a Siting description of it all.
"They thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died."
Into the brightness of the September days there intruded one, wherein all the house was still, with that strange, solemn stillness that comes only to those homes where death has left a seal. From the doors floated the long crape signals, and in the great parlors were gathering those who had come to take their parting look at the white, quiet face. "ESTER RIED, aged 19," so the coffin-plate told them. Thus early had the story of her life been finished.
Only one arrangement had Ester made for this last scene in her life drama.
"I am going to preach my own funeral sermon," she had said pleasantly to Abbie one day. "I want every one to know what seemed to me the most important thing in life. And I want them to understand that when I came just to the end of my life it stood out the most important thing still—for Christians, I mean. My sermon is to be preached for them. No it isn't either; it applies equally to all. The last time I went to the city I found in a bookstore just the kind of sermon I want preached. I bought it. You will find the package in my upper bureau drawer, Abbie. I leave it to you to see that they are so arranged that every one who comes to look at me will be sure to see them."