“I see the reason of everything that I did not understand before.” And she began to speak of her life and its events, and went on with a force and clearness, and natural eloquence—yet more, with a simple piety—which Mary was wont to speak of afterwards as the finest revelation of a noble soul that she had ever unexpectedly met with. Mrs. Billiter knew that her little boys were dead; she knew, by some means or other, all the horrors by which she was surrounded; and she knew that she was about to die. Yet the conversation was a thoroughly cheerful one. The faces of both were smiling; the voices of both were lively, though that of the dying woman was feeble. After summing up the experience of her life, and declaring what she expected to experience next, and leaving a message for her mother, she said there was but one thing more; she ‘should like to receive the sacrament.’ Mary wrote a note in pencil to Mr. Finch, and sent it by Sally, who had been hovering about ever since the morning, in the hope of being of further use, but who was glad now to get out of sight, that her tears might have way; for she felt that she was about to lose the only friend who had been kind to her (in a way she could accept) since Simpson had put her off from the promised marriage. “She is sorry to part with me,” said that dying friend. “Cousin Mary, you do not think, as my mother does, that I have done wrong in noticing Sally, do you?” “No; I think you did well. And I think your mother will be kind to her, for your sake, from this time forward. Sickness and death open our eyes to many things, you know, cousin.” “Ay, they do. I see it all now.” Sally was sorely ashamed to bring back Mr. Finch’s message. Well as she knew that time was precious, she lingered with it at the door. Mr. Finch was sorry, but he was too busy. He hoped he should not be sent for again; for he could not come. “Perhaps, Miss,” said Sally, with swimming eyes, “it might have been better to send somebody else than me. Perhaps, if you sent somebody else—” “I do not think that, Sally. However, if you will remain here, I will go myself. It does not matter what he thinks of me, a stranger in the place; and perhaps none of his flock could so well tell him that this is a duty which he cannot refuse.” Mary had not walked up the street for several weeks. Though her good influence was in almost every house, in the form of cleanliness, fresh air, cheerfulness, and hope, she had been seen only when passing from one sick room to another, among a cluster of houses near her aunt’s. She supposed it might be this disuse which made everything appear strange; but it was odd scarcely to feel her limbs when she walked, and to see the houses and people like so many visions. She had no feeling of illness, however, and she said to herself, that some time or other she should get a good long sleep; and then everything would look and feel as it used to do.