There was never such a dear
and thoughtful child! . . . Aunt Hannah?"
"Dear Margaret?"
"Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her.
Why--you are crying again. Don't be so worried about me, dear;
I think there is nothing to fear, yet."
The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered
it to unheeding ears. The girl babbled on unaware; looking up
at her with wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever,
eyes in which was no light of recognition:
"Are you--no, you are not my mother. I want her--oh, I want her!
She was here a minute ago--I did not see her go. Will she come? will
she come quickly? will she come now? . . . There are so many houses
. . . and they oppress me so . . . and everything whirls and turns
and whirls . . . oh, my head, my head!"--and so she wandered on
and on, in her pain, flitting from one torturing fancy to another,
and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution
of unrest.
Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the
hot brow, murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking
the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.
CHAPTER VI
Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave,
and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her
radiant health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage
was also now nearing its end.
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