The thought that his death itself might have been in part owing to what I had done—I mean to his mind being over-full—didn't come to torture me till later. I had enough to bear without that—more than enough. As I lay through the slow hours of the early morning, racked with looking back and looking forward, I did feel as if my heart must break—as if I couldn't live through the time that was coming. When Mr. Baitson called, he said I must keep still, and not think of getting up; and, indeed, I had lost all wish to move. I only wanted to lie still, and to think of father's last kiss. That was my one comfort, though tears came in floods with the recollection. But if I hadn't spoken to him then, oh, how could I ever have borne it? "Kitty, you must not leave your room again without my leave," says Mr. Baitson. "No, I won't," I said; "but I want mother! I want mother!" "I hope she will be able to come to you soon," he says gently. "Not for a day or two, at all events." "Is mother ill?" I asked. "Yes," he said. "There are different sorts of illness, Kitty. Such a shock must tell upon her, you know. I would rather have seen her bodily more ill, than this." I didn't know what he meant, and I was too weak to ask. "Somebody is coming to take care of you, whom you will be glad to see," he went on. I didn't ask who. It only seemed so odd he should speak of me being "glad" about anything. I couldn't think I ever should feel "glad" again. And yet he was in the right. I knew it, two hours later, when my bedroom door opened, and Mary Russell walked in. She looked so pale, and her eyes were red with crying. But when she sat down on the bed, and took me into her arms, I did feel a sort of rest that was almost like gladness. "My poor Kitty!" she whispered. "I don't think I believe it," I said, looking up in her face. "I don't think it's true." Then I broke down, and cried pitifully. But soon I said again, "It isn't true. It can't be true. I think we shall wake up." "Yes, by-and-by," she said. "When we wake up in heaven, all sorrow over. That will be a wonderful awakening, Kitty," says she. "And, dear, you'll come there to meet him," says she. "O Mary, you won't go! you won't leave us!" I begged; for I felt as if there was nobody else to rest on. "No," she answered. "I am come to stay, so long as you both want me." "Mother wants you," I said. "She doesn't love me any more." "Kitty, it is not that," Mary answered. "You mustn't think it for a moment. Your poor mother isn't fully herself with the trouble. If she could cry she would be better, but she can't shed a tear, and till she does—" "She wouldn't kiss me," I said. "Oh, I know I deserve it. I know it's the punishment." Mary let me say so much, and then she told me not to talk any more. She whispered softly something about the love of God, and how He would take care of us all. The difference of having her there! But nothing could lighten the great heavy load of pain.