“Very soon; it may be to-night; I feel it creeping toward me.” Catharine uttered a broken cry, and dropping her head, whispered a prayer for strength. “Or any hour—the doctor thinks it will be sudden; I know it will be soon.” “Oh, my friend! my dear, dear friend, what shall I do without you!” “The God who calls me will comfort you, my child.” There was something ineffably calm and sweet in the dying woman’s voice, but it was very faint. “Do you suffer?” questioned Catharine. “A little, but that is nothing; I want to talk to you, my good child, not of myself—all is right with me, but what will the world have for you when I am gone?” “Nothing.” When that one pathetic word fell from Catharine’s lips, she covered her face with both hands, and began to cry, not noisily, but with a hush of grief all the more touching from its stillness. “You must go away, Catharine.” “Yes, my friend,” answered Catharine, meekly; “tell me what I must do in your sweet wisdom; God will guide me to follow it.” “There will be new people coming. You are young and very, very pretty, my child; too young, and far too beautiful for a place like this. Some way will be opened, take it. Seek quietness and protection. Some day your husband will come back.” “Oh, say that again, Mother Barr—once more; from those dear lips it seems like a holy promise.” “It is a holy promise, or God would not have sent it so clearly to my mind at the last.” “I will believe it—I do believe it. Oh, if you could only live to know.” “I shall know, child.” Catharine kissed the hand which had fallen away from her head. She did not comprehend the faith in these last gentle words; but Mrs. Barr went on, smiling wanly upon her through the moonlight. “Oh yes, dear; I shall know; that will be a part of my blessedness. But now, while we are here and so still, let me tell you what I have done.” “No, no; do not tell me! it makes this so real,” pleaded Catharine. “My poor child, it is real.” “Oh, let me hope not, a little longer—only a little longer.” “There is a paper in my desk—a will. It is not much, but all I have is yours.” Catharine began to sob. “Hush, child, hush! You are my daughter, sent when I needed one most. You have been a good, good child. I love nothing so dear on earth. It is little, but enough to keep you from taking wages of any one. For all that, darling, you must be useful. God made all his creatures for usefulness. Human suffering will want alleviation. You will find duties at every step. Do them well—” The good woman paused a moment, struggling for breath. This conversation was exhausting her feeble strength. After a little, she spoke again: “Keep my name, Catharine, till your husband comes back and gives you his own. It pleases me to think that it does not quite die out with me. Now go down, darling. The good people will want you, and I would like to rest a little.”