"I never dreamed of that, dear aunt, nor was I worthy of it!" I answered, greatly affected by what she said. "Yes, you were; and I have grown to love you better because of your simple ways. For believing you were alone in the world, you yet kept on, not complaining nor going astray in any serious way." "I had help in that, dear aunt, of which you do not know," I answered, thinking of Constance. "Yes, the help that comes from companionship with a gentle and pure heart; from Constance’s sympathy and love for you. You see, I know all about her and your love for each other, you dear child. Yes, even while you were yet at Wild Plum, and children; and I shall die the happier for it, Gilbert, for she is worthy of your love though you were a thousand times better than you are." "Oh, aunt, how good of you to speak in that way; but you will not die, for no one of our family, save my father, was ever stricken down so young." "I am sorry if it grieves you, dear child, but in a little while, you cannot dream how soon, I shall be laid beside your sweet mother. Put me there, Gilbert, and when you place flowers on their graves, spare some for me. It is all I ask, save that you will remember me as kindly as you can when I am gone." "Don’t talk that way, dear aunt, for you know I will love you always, and I loved you before I saw you, when I found the graves covered with flowers, and at Wild Plum, where everything was as it used to be." "Did you come that way, child? It was affectionate of you, and as it should be. When I am gone you can do as I have, if you wish, for I shall leave you enough for that, and much more to spend as you like." "Don’t speak so, dear aunt, for you are not going to die," I answered, melted anew to tears by the sad pathos of her voice.