"You will live, I am sure, dear Winnie, till God has done for you all he means to do; — till he has fitted his child for heaven; — and then he will take her."
"I know that," said Winifred with a grateful half look up at him; — "but I mean — you know I am not well quite, and weak, and I don't think I get any better; — don't you think that it won't take a very great while, very likely?"
"How would you feel, Winnie, if you thought that was so?"
"I do think it sometimes — pretty often," — said Winnie, "and it don't make me feel sorry, Governor."
"You think heaven is better than earth."
"Yes, —and then — that's one good thing of my sickness — it don't seem as if I ever could do much if I lived, so it matters the less."
"Nobody knows how much he does, who does his duty," said
Winthrop.
"Why I can't do anything at all!" said Winnie.
"Every talent that isn't buried brings something into the treasury," said Winthrop.
"Yes — that's pleasant," said Winnie; — "but I don't know what mine is."