I have told you that little Lib was a delicate child, and that she grew
more and more fragile and weak as the summer went on. In the hot, dry
days of August she drooped like a thirsty flower, and her strength
failed very fast. Her voice, though still sweet and clear, lost its
shrillness, and one had to draw very close to the little speaker that he
might not lose a word of the stories she told. Aunt Jane York often came
out to us now, anxious and fussy, talking fretfully of and to little
Lib, feeling the small hands and feet to see if they were cold, and
drawing the shawl closer around the wasted form. I know she loved the
little girl, and perhaps she wished now that she had shown that love
more tenderly. She talked freely, in the very presence of the child, of
her rapid decline and the probability that she would not "last long."
Lib said nothing concerning her own condition, and showed no sign of
having heard her aunt's comments. But one day, when Miss York, after
speaking very freely and plainly of the child's approaching end, had
gone indoors, Lib announced, in a low, sweet voice, a new story.