“Mamma,” said the invalid, looking up tenderly into her face, “will you—oh! no, not you, mamma—Emily will—a mouthful of drink, Emily dear, and let it be pure water, Emily; I think it agrees with me best.”
“Alas, my darling!” exclaimed her mother, wiping away a few quiet tears, “I have nothing else to give you.”
“Well, mamma, but you know I like it very much.”
“Precious child,” replied her mother, again tenderly pressing her to her bosom; “we all know your goodness, and the reluctance with which you ask anything that you fear might occasion us trouble. Dearest life, it will be the memory of these glimpses of angelic goodness that will wring our hearts when you are——” She paused, for the words had been uttered unconsciously.
“Yes,” said her father, “they will console us, my child, and make your memory smell sweet, and blossom from the very dust. You have probably heard of the beautiful sentiment so exquisitely delineated by the great painter—'I too have been in Arcadia,'—and will it not be something to us to be able to say,—'We too have an angel in paradise!'”
Her sister brought her a cup of cold water, with which, after thanking her with a sweet smile, she merely wet her lips. “Alas! I am very troublesome to you all, but I shall not long—”
“Darling sister,” said Emily, tenderly kissing her, “do not speak so; you are too good, and ever were so. Ah! Maria,” she exclaimed, gushing into tears, “is it come to this at last!”
The sick girl placed her hand affectionately upon her cheek, and said—“Dear, dear sister, how I love you! Oh! how I love you all! and papa, my dear papa, how I pity you in your sorrow!”
“Thanks, my darling, I know that your heart is pervaded and sustained by all tenderness and affection; and indeed it is a consolation that since calamity has come upon us, it has fallen upon a family of love—of love to which it only gives greater strength and tenderness. This is a great blessing, my children, and we ought to feel deeply thankful for it. But, at the same time, it matters not what we suffer, we must allow nothing in this world of trial to shake our trust in God. Here, however, is our poor little messenger. Well Edward, any letter?”
“Oh, yes, papa; there is one from Matilda. I know her writing.”