"Your riches, Mother Bartlett?"—And she was not going to live but a few days more. Diana wondered if her senses were wandering. But the old lady smiled; the wise, sweet smile that Diana knew of old.
"Whose be they, then?" she asked.
"You mean, all this pretty summer day?"
"Ain't it pretty? And ain't the sunshine clear gold? And ain't the sky a kind of an elegant canopy? And it's all mine, and all it covers, and he that made it too; and seein' what he makes, puts me in mind of how rich he is and what more he kin do. How's the baby?"
For some little time the baby was talked of, in both present and future relations.
"And you're very happy, Diana?" the old woman asked. "I hain't seen you now for quite a spell—'most all winter."
"I ought to be"—Diana answered, hesitating.
"Some things folks does because they had ought to," remarked the old lady, "but bein' happy ain't one of 'em. The whole world had ought to be happy, if you put it so. The Lord wants 'em to be."
"Not happy"—said Diana hastily.
"Yes. 'Tain't his fault if they ain't."