For who shall fill for her her mother’s place on earth—­and what occupation will be left for Margaret when her “beautiful old raison d’etre,” as she sometimes calls her mother, has entered into the sleep of the blessed?  She seldom thinks of that, for the thought is too lonely, and, meanwhile, she uses all her love and care to make this earth so attractive and cozy that the beautiful mother-spirit who has been so long prepared for her short journey to heaven may be tempted to linger here yet a little while longer.  These ministrations, which began as a kind of renunciation, have now turned into an unselfish selfishness.  Margaret began by feeling herself necessary to her mother; now her mother becomes more and more necessary to Margaret.  Sometimes when she leaves her alone for a few moments in her chair, she laughingly bends over and says, “Promise me that you won’t run away to heaven while my back is turned.”

And the old mother smiles one of those transfigured smiles which seem only to light up the faces of those that are already half over the border of the spiritual world.

Winter is, of course, Margaret’s time of chief anxiety, and then her loving efforts are redoubled to detain her beloved spirit in an inclement world.  Each winter passed in safety seems a personal victory over death.  How anxiously she watches for the first sign of the returning spring, how eagerly she brings the news of early blade and bud, and with the first violet she feels that the danger is over for another year.  When the spring is so afire that she is able to fill her mother’s lap with a fragrant heap of crocus and daffodil, she dares at last to laugh and say,

“Now confess, mother, that you won’t find sweeter flowers even in heaven.”

And when the thrush is on the apple bough outside the window, Margaret will sometimes employ the same gentle raillery.

“Do you think, mother,” she will say, “that an angel could sing sweeter than that thrush?”

“You seem very sure, Margaret, that I am going to heaven,” the old mother will sometimes say, with one of her arch old smiles; “but do you know that I stole two peppermints yesterday?”

“You did!” says Margaret.

“I did indeed! and they have been on my conscience ever since.”

“Really, mother!  I don’t know what to say,” answers Margaret.  “I had no idea that you are so wicked.”

Many such little games the two play together, as the days go by; and often at bedtime, as Margaret tucks her mother into bed, she asks her: 

“Are you comfortable, dear?  Do you really think you would be much more comfortable in heaven?”

Or sometimes she will draw aside the window-curtains and say: 

“Look at the stars, mother....  Don’t you think we get the best view of them down here?”

So it is that Margaret persuades her mother to delay her journey a little while.

Kittie’s Sister Josephine