"I am glad Dr. Hewlitt said that, Die. I do love to take care of him; it is the only thing I can do for David now."
"Father," she said to him one day—for when they were alone she always called him by that name—"I think you have still some work to do before your rest time comes. You are getting better, are you not?"
Then he looked at her with sad wistfulness.
"I think I am not worthy to go yet," he returned humbly. "I must do my Master's work as long as He gives me strength to do it. Oh, Elizabeth, they are all there—all but Theo and I—David's mother, and Alice, and Magdalene, and our little Felicia, and now David has joined them in that heavenly mansion."
"But you will go too, dear, when the Master says, 'Go up higher,'" whispered Elizabeth.
Then the slow tears of age gathered in Mr. Carlyon's eyes. "Yes—yes, I know it; but the flesh is weak, Elizabeth. Pray for me that I may have patience;" and then he rested his gray head against her as she knelt beside him, as though the burden of that sorrow were too heavy for him to bear.
Malcolm was in the churchyard that sunshiny April day when they buried David in the tranquil spot that he had chosen for his last resting-place. Not only the people of Rotherwood, but friends from Staplegrove and Earlsfield, and from the villages for miles round, were gathered there—for the young clergyman had been much beloved. Very near the newly-made grave was a tiny grassy mound where little Kit lay; and at Malcolm's side stood a small, shabbily-dressed man, with pale watery blue eyes and an air of extreme dejection, nervously fumbling with the crape band on his hat. Malcolm had just laid a little spray of violets and lilies of the valley on the mound, as they waited for the funeral procession.
"She was fond of flowers, Caleb."
"Ay, that she was, sir," brightening up. "Kit loved everything that was bright and pretty, bless her dear heart! I hope they'll give her lots of flowers where she's gone, and that they will let her pick them for herself. You mind her last words to me, Mr. Herrick—'Good-bye, dad, I am a-going to be an angel, and I mean to be a real splendid one,' and all the time her poor throat would hardly let her speak."
"Poor little soul," murmured Malcolm compassionately; for Kit had suffered greatly in her heroic childish fashion. "Hush, here they come, Caleb."