Lord has given me a warning, and I shan't be here long."

"I am so sorry I did not know of this!" said Emily. "I should have come
to see you before, but I never heard of your illness until to-day.
George, my father's man, saw you and Gertrude at a shop this morning,
and he told me. Gertrude should have sent me word."

Gerty was standing by True's chair, smoothing his grey locks with her
slender fingers. As Emily mentioned her name, he turned and looked at
her. O what a look of love he gave her! Gerty never forgot it.

"Miss Emily," said he, "'twas no need for anybody to be troubled. The
Lord provided for me His own self. All the doctors and nurses in the
land couldn't have done half so much for me as this little gal o' mine.
It wa'nt at all in my mind, some four or five years gone--when I brought
the little barefoot mite of a thing to my home, and when she was sick
and e'en a'most dyin' in this very room, and I carried her in my arms
night and day--that her turn would come so soon. Ah! I little thought
then, Miss Emily, how the Lord would lay me low--how those same feet
would run about in my service, how her bit of a hand would come in the
dark nights to smooth my pillow, and I'd go about daytimes leaning on
her little arm. Truly God's ways are not like our ways, nor his thoughts
like our thoughts."

"Oh, Uncle True!" said Gerty, "I don't do much for you, I wish I could
do a great deal more. I wish I could make you strong again."

"I dare say you do, my darlin', but that can't be in this world; you've
given me what's far better than strength o' body. Yes, Miss Emily,"
added he, "it's you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. I
loved my little birdie; but I was a foolish man, and I should ha' spiled
her. You knew better what was for her good, and mine too. You made her
what she is now, one of the lambs of Christ, a handmaiden of the Lord.
If anybody'd told me, six months ago, that I should become a poor
cripple, and sit in my chair all day, and not know who was going to
furnish a living for me or birdie either, I should ha' said I never
could bear my lot with patience, or keep up any heart at all. But I've
learned a lesson from this little one. When I first got so I could
speak, after the shock, and tell what was in my mind, I was so troubled
a' thinkin' of my sad case, and Gerty with nobody to work or do anything
for her, that I said, 'What shall we do now?--what shall we do now?' And
then she whispered in