"My child," she began, and her voice was low, but very distinct, "my only and darling child, who has minded me so long, and laid her youth, and beauty, and high courageous spirit, at the feet of her weak mother; my child, who fostered in wealth and love, will be to-morrow an orphan, cast upon the wide world"--here she fairly broke down, in spite of religion, and heaven, and turned her head to the pillow, a true daughter and mother of earth. I would fain have given that fortune, whose loss to me she lamented, for leave to cry freely with her, without adding to her distress. In a minute or two, she was able to proceed; with her thin hand she parted the hair shaken purposely over my eyes. "I am sure that my pet will listen, with kindness and patience, while I try to say what has lain so long at my heart. You know how painfully I have always been moved by any allusion to the death of your dear father. It has been a weakness no doubt on my part, but one which I vainly strove against; and for which I trust to be pardoned where all is pardon and peace." Her voice began to tremble, and her eyes became fixed, and I feared a return of the old disorder; but she shook it off, and spoke again distinctly, though with great labour: "This is a bitter subject, and I never could bring myself to it, till now, when it seems too late. But, my poor love, I am so anxious about it. For the rest--that Providence which has never forsaken us, repine as I would, I can trust that Providence still to protect my darling child. There is one thing, and only one, by promising which you will make my departure quite happy. Then I shall go to rejoin your father, and carry such tidings of you, as will enable us both to wait, in the fulness of time, your coming." "Oh, that the fulness of time were come!" I cried in my selfish loneliness; "for me it is empty enough." "My precious, my own darling Clara, you sob so, you make me most wretched." "Mother, I will not cry any more;" neither did I, while she could see me. "I need not tell you," she said, "what is that promise which I crave for your own dear sake." "No, ma’am," I replied, "I know quite well what it is." I saw that I had grieved her. How could I call her then anything else than "mother"? "My mother dear, you wish me to promise this--that I will forego my revenge upon him who slew my father." She bowed her head, with a look I cannot describe. In the harsh way I had put it, it seemed as if she were injuring both my father and me. "Had you asked me anything else, although it were sin against God and man (if you could ask such a thing)--I would have pledged myself to it, as gladly as I would die--die, at least, if my task were done. But this, this one thing only--to abandon what I live for, what I was born to do, to be a traitor to my own father and you--I implore you, mother, by Him whose glory is on you now, do not ask me this." Her face in its sadness and purity made me bury my eyes and forget things.