ct what I had been saying or doing since
I heard the awful truth. I had been removed from the dark and bloody
ground in some way and by somebody, for I was lying on my mother's bed.
The consciousness of where I was had in it some drops of the oil of
consolation. Next to the close embrace of the mother's arms there is no
other resting-place on earth that so aptly typifies the safety and
healing grace of Heaven to the child of whatever age, as Mother's Bed.

In our house, to be laid upon that miracle of elastic fluffiness was to
become, in fancy, a blessed ghost, cradled upon a cloud. The sick
child, the hurt child, the repentant child--were received into that holy
asylum without other certificate than his or her need.

Finding myself there made me feel that there might still be something
worth living for, and to care for. My mother was by me and her arm was
under my head; my father stood at the foot of the bed, kind and
compassionate; Mam' Chloe was putting a bottle of hot water to my feet,
and there was a strong smell of cologne in the air. I was very weak; my
head felt queer and light, and although I was not crying, something
seemed to grab me inside and shake me every little while--a short, sharp
shake that made me gasp. Before I could open my eyes I heard my mother's
voice say:--

"I wish the dear child did not take things so much to heart. It will
bring her a great deal of sorrow in her future life."

Ah, blessed mother of mine! for so many years beyond the sight and
hearing of the vicissitudes of that life, then new and all
untried--yours was but a partial prophecy. Against the sorrows born of
"taking things so much to heart," I set a wealth of joy and beauty and
love that have been made mine own by the same nature and habit.

What she said or meant was little to me at that moment, for as I blinked
confusedly about me, I saw Mary 'Liza, neat and upright, in her own
especial chair by the window, and Preciosa was on her lap.

An electric bolt quivered through me. I started up and pointed at the
placid pair, my hand shaking like a leaf, my voice thick with
spluttering wrath:--

"_She_ did it! I want her killed."

"Dear child, lie down, don't talk, you are dreaming," cooed my mother,
trying to force me gently down to the pillow.

I put her aside, and tried to form articulate words.

"_That, cat, did, it!_ I saw her. I'll kill her! Let me get up."

My father came to my mother's help.

"Take the cat out of