Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she brought little Mary over to me: “Take her, Sally,” she said—and between every word she gave the child a kiss—“Take her; she’s safer with you than she’d be with me, for you’re over the sickness, and ’tisn’t long any way I’ll be with you, my jewel,” she said, as she gave the little creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms. ’Twould take long to tell all about her sickness—how Richard and I, as good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every farthing and farthing’s worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and everything we could want. Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up straight in the bed. “Bring me the child, Sally _aleagh_,” she said. And when I carried little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was reading it like a book. “You won’t be long away from me, my own one,” she said, while her tears fell down upon the child like summer-rain. “Mother,” said I, as well as I could speak for crying, “sure you _know_ I’ll do my best to tend her.” “I know you will, _acushla_; you were always a true and dutiful daughter to me and to him that’s gone; but, Sally, there’s _that_ in my weeney one that won’t let her thrive without the mother’s hand over her, and the mother’s heart for her’s to lean against. And now—.” It was all she could say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on my arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbours came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away. Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit at the door, and watch hour after hour along the road that her mother always took coming home from market, waiting for her that could never come again. When the sun was near setting, her gaze used to be more fixed and eager; but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes used to droop like the flowers that shut up their leaves, and she would come in quietly without saying a word, and allow me to undress her and put her to bed.