“It cannot be that God, who knows the kind and affectionate heart you have, an’ ever had,” replied his dying wife, “will neglect you and them long,”—­but she answered with difficulty.  “We were very happy,” she proceeded, slowly, however, and with pain; “for, hard as the world was of late upon us, still we had love and affection among ourselves; and that, Jemmy, God in his goodness left us, blessed be his—­his—­holy name—­an’ sure it was betther than all he took from us.  I hope poor Alley will recover; she’s now nearly a girl, an’ will be able to take care of you and be a mother to the rest.  I feel that my tongue’s gettin’ wake; God bless you and them, an’, above all, her—­for she was our darlin’ an’ our life, especially yours.  Raise me up a little,” she added, “till I take a last look at them before I go.”  He did so, and after casting her languid eyes mournfully over the wretched sleepers, she added:  “Well, God is good, but this is a bitther sight for a mother’s heart.  Jemmy,” she proceeded, “I won’t be long by myself in heaven; some of them will be with me soon—­an’ oh, what a joyful meeting will that be.  But it’s you I feel for most—­it’s you I’m loath to lave, light of my heart.  Howsomever, God’s will be done still.  He sees we can’t live here, an’ He’s takin’ us to himself.  Don’t, darlin’, don’t kiss me, for fraid you might catch this fav——­”

She held his hand in hers during this brief and tender dialogue, but on attempting to utter the last word he felt a gentle pressure, then a slight relaxation, and on holding the candle closer to her emaciated face—­which still bore those dim traces of former beauty, that, in many instances, neither sickness nor death can altogether obliterate—­he stooped and wildly kissed her now passive lips, exclaiming, in words purposely low, that the other inmates of the cabin might not hear them: 

“A million favers, my darlin’ Mary, would not prevent me from kissin’ your lips, that will never more be opened with words of love and kindness to my heart.  Oh, Mary, Mary! little did I drame that it would be in such a place, and in such a way, that you’d lave me and them.”

[Illustration:  PAGE 409—­ He stooped and wildly kissed her now passive lips]

He had hardly spoken, when one of the little ones, awaking, said: 

“Daddy, come here, an’ see what ails Alley; she won’t spake to me.”

“She’s asleep, darlin’, I suppose,” he replied; “don’t spake so loud, or you’ll waken her.”

“Ay, but she’s as could as any tiling,” continued the little one; “an’I can’t rise her arm to put it about me the way it used to be.”

Her father went over, and placing’ the dim light close to her face, as he had done to that of her mother, perceived at a glance, that when the spirit of that affectionate mother—­of that faithful wife—­went to happiness, she had one kindred soul there to welcome her.