“Here I am, Melissa.” The gaunt figure rose suddenly, to the surprise of all, and moved toward the bed. They made room for her. There was no time for formal explanations or greetings. “I’m here, Melissa; I heard you was sick, an’ ’lowed I’d better drap in.”
“Thank God!” cried Mrs. Hansard, as she took the hardened hand in her frail fingers and tried to press it. “I’ve been prayin’ God to let me see you once more. I want you to forgive me, Martha. I’m dying. I’ve done you a great wrong. Forgive me, forgive me!”
“La, me, Melissa, I hain’t a thing to forgive!” was the calm, insistent reply; “not a blessed thing! It was all as much my doin’ as yore’n. We was both jest natural—that’s all—jest natural, like the Lord made us—me in my way, and you in yore’n.”
Edith kissed her aunt’s wrinkled cheek gratefully, and, with her cheek on the old woman’s shoulder, she wept silently.
“I thank God; I feel easier now,” said Mrs. Hansard. “You’ve made me happier, Martha. I can die easier now. God is good.”
Someone gave Mrs. Thompson a chair, and she sat down and held her sister’s hand till it was all over. Then the Governor’s son took the old woman’s arm and led her into the sitting-room, and there the three motherless girls joined her.
“You are much like her,” sobbed Susie, the youngest; “you have her eyes and mouth.”
“Yes, folks used to say we favored,” said Mrs. Thompson simply.
“You must not leave us, Aunt Martha,” said Edith. “We must keep you with us. She would like to have it so.”
“Yes, do, do, Aunt Martha,” chimed in Susie and Annie.