“Well, you know how mother and aunt Mary loved each other, how near they were to each other. Why, mother could always tell when aunt Mary was ill or in trouble, and she was just the same in regard to mother. And I can't think that when death has freed the soul from the flesh, that they will have less spiritual knowledge of each other than when they were here; and I felt, that with such a love as theirs, death would only make their souls nearer: and you know what the Bible says,--that 'God shall make of his angels ministering spirits;' and I _know_ He would send no other angel but my mother, to dear aunt Mary's bedside, to take her spirit home. And I thought, that, if I were there, my mother would be there right in the room with me; and I didn't know but I might _feel_ her presence if I could not see her. And I _do_ want my mother so sometimes, aunt Samantha,” says she with the tears comin' into them soft brown eyes. “It seems as if she would tell me what to do for the boy--she always knew what was right and best to do.” Says I to myself, “For the land's sake, what won't Cicely think on next?” But I didn't say a word, mind you, not a single word would I say to hurt that child's feelin's--not for a silver dollar, I wouldn't. I only says, in calm accents,-- “Don't for mercy's sake, child, talk of seein' your mother now.” She looked far off into the shinin' western heavens with that deep, searchin', but soft gaze,--seemin' to look clear through them cloudy mansions of rose and pearl,--and says she,-- “If I were good enough, I think I could.” And I says, “Cicely, you are goin' to take cold, with nothin' round your shoulders.” Says I, “The weather is very ketchin', and it looks to me as if we wus goin' to have quite a spell of it.” And the boy overheard me, and asked me 75 questions about ketchin' the weather. “If the weather set a trap? If it ketched with bait, or with a hook, and what it ketched? and how? and who?” Oh my stars! what a time I did have! The next mornin' after this Cicely wuzn't well enough to get up. I carried up her breakfast with my own hands,--a good one, though I am fur from bein' the one that ort to say it. And after breakfast, along in the forenoon, Martha, who was makin' my dress, felt troubled in mind as to whether she had better cut the polenay kitrin' ways of the cloth, or not: and Miss Gowdey had jest had one made in the height of the fashion, to Jonesville; and so to ease Martha's mind (she is one that gets deprested easy, when weighty subjects are pressin' her down), I said I would run over cross-lots, and carry home a drawin' of tea I had borrowed, and look at the polenay, and bring back tidin's from it. And I wus goin' there acrost the orchard, when I see the boy a layin' on his back under a apple-tree, lookin' up into the sky; and says I,-- “What be you doin' here, Paul?” He never got up, nor moved a mite. That is one of the peculiarities of the boy, you can't surprise him: nothin' seems to startle him.