"We are all lepers," gently said Rachel, "for we are all sinners, and sin is to the soul what leprosy is to the body; it defiles it, and we all should be glad to die; for Christ has conquered death, and with death sin ends, and our true life, the life in God begins." Mary raised herself on one elbow. She looked at Rachel fixedly, earnestly; "Miss Gray," she said; "what do you mean?" Rachel did not reply--she could not. "Why do you tell me all these things?" continued Mary. And still Rachel could not speak. "Miss Gray," said Mary, "am _I_ going to die?" She looked wistfully in Rachel's face, and the beseeching tone of her young childish voice seemed to pierce Rachel's heart; but she had began; could not, she dared not go back. She rose, she clasped her hands, she trembled from head to foot, tears streamed down her cheek; her voice faltered so that she could scarcely speak, but she mastered it, clear and distinct the words came out. "Mary, we must all obey the will of God; we came into this world at His will, at His will we must leave it." "And must I leave it, Miss Gray?" asked Mary, persisting in her questioning like a child. Rachel stooped over her; the fast tears poured from her face on Mary's pale brow, "yes, my darling," she said softly, "yes, you must leave this miserable earth of trouble and sorrow, and go to God your friend and your father." The weakest, the frailest creatures often rise to heroic courage. This fretful, pettish child heard her sentence with some wonder, but apparently without sorrow. "Don't cry, Miss Gray," she said, "_I_ don't cry; but do you know, it seems so odd that I should die, doesn't it now?" Rachel did not reply, nor did she attempt it; her very heart was wrung. Mary guessed, or saw it. "I wish you would not fret," she said, "I wish you would not. Miss Gray. _I_ don't, you see." "Ay," thought Rachel, "you do not, my poor child, for what do you know of death?" And a little while after this, Mary, who felt heavy, fell asleep with her hand in that of Rachel Gray. CHAPTER XX. Three days had passed. The morning was gray and dull. He had sat up all night by Mary; for Rachel, exhausted with fatigue, had been unable to come. Poor little Mary, her hour was nigh; she knew it, and her young heart grieved for her father, so soon to be childless. She thought of herself too; she looked over the whole of her young life, and she saw its transgressions and its sins with a sorrow free from faithless dismay; for Rachel had said to her: "Shall we dare to limit for ourselves, or for others, the unfathomed mercy of God?" "Father," she suddenly said, "I want to speak to you." "What is it, my darling?" he asked, bending over her fondly. She looked up in his face, her cheeks flushed with a deeper hectic, her glassy eyes lit with a brighter light. "Father," she said, "I have been a naughty child, have I not?" "No--no, my little pet, never, indeed, never."