At the end of some months I got the sickness myself, but not so heavily
as Richard did before. Any way, he and my mother tended me well through
it. They sold almost every little stick of furniture that was left, to
buy me drink and medicine. By degrees I recovered, and the first evening
I was able to sit up, I noticed a strange wild brightness in my mother’s
eyes, and a hot flush on her thin cheeks—she had taken the fever.
Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she
brought little Mary over to me: “Take her, Sally,” she said—and between
every word she gave the child a kiss—“Take her; she’s safer with you
than she’d be with me, for you’re over the sickness, and ’tisn’t long
any way I’ll be with you, my jewel,” she said, as she gave the little
creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms.
’Twould take long to tell all about her sickness—how Richard and I, as
good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every
farthing and farthing’s worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress
herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family
returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and
everything we could want.
Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for
death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up
straight in the bed.
“Bring me the child, Sally _aleagh_,” she said. And when I carried
little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was
reading it like a book.
“You won’t be long away from me, my own one,” she said, while her tears
fell down upon the child like summer-rain.
“Mother,” said I, as well as I could speak for crying, “sure you _know_
I’ll do my best to tend her.”
“I know you will, _acushla_; you were always a true and dutiful daughter
to me and to him that’s gone; but, Sally, there’s _that_ in my weeney
one that won’t let her thrive without the mother’s hand over her, and
the mother’s heart for her’s to lean against. And now—.” It was all she
could say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on
my arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could
not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan
would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbours
came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away.
Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit
at the door, and watch hour after hour along the road that her mother
always took coming home from market, waiting for her that could never
come again. When the sun was near setting, her gaze used to be more
fixed and eager; but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes used to
droop like the flowers that shut up their leaves, and she would come in
quietly without saying a word, and allow me to undress her and put her
to bed.
It troubled us and the young ladies greatly that she would not eat. It
was almost impossible to get her to taste a morsel; indeed the only
thing she would let inside her lips was a bit of a little white bun,
like those her poor mother used to bring her. There was nothing left
untried to please her. I carried her up to the big house, thinking the
change might do her good, and the ladies petted her, and talked to her,
and gave her heaps of toys and cakes, and pretty frocks and coats; but
she hardly noticed them, and was restless and uneasy until she got back
to her own low sunny door-step.
Every day she grew paler and thinner, and her bright eyes had a sad fond
look in them, so like her mother’s. One evening she sat at the door
later than usual.
“Come in, _alannah_,” I said to her. “Won’t you come in for your own
Sally?”
She never stirred. I went over to her; she was quite still, with her
little hands crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on her chest. I
touched her—she was cold. I gave a loud scream, and Richard came
running—he stopped and looked, and then burst out crying like an infant.
Our little sister was dead!
Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but it was short. You’re gone home
to Him that comforts as a mother comforteth. _Agra machree_, your eyes
are as blue, and your hair as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they
were when you watched by the cabin-door; but your cheeks are not pale,
_acushla_, nor your little hands thin, and the shade of sorrow has
passed away from your forehead like a rain-cloud from the summer sky.
She that loved you so on earth, has clasped you for ever to her bosom in
heaven; and God himself has wiped away all tears from your eyes, and
placed you both and our own dear father far beyond the touch of sorrow
or the fear of death.