he gazed, too, she remarked an
appearance of emaciation and suffering about her face, which had
hitherto escaped her observation. She recollected her as she first saw
her, a beautiful and blooming woman, and now there was bloom without
beauty, and brightness without beauty, for the color on the cheek and
the gleam of the eye, made one wish for pallor and dimness, as less
painful and less prophetic.

"Yes, Miss Thusa," resumed Mrs. Gleason, after a long pause, "if my
child lives, I wish her guarded most carefully from all gloomy
influences. I know that I must soon leave her, for I have an hereditary
malady, whose symptoms have lately been much aggravated. I have long
since resigned myself to my doom, knowing that my Heavenly Father knows
when it is best to call me home. But I cannot bear that my children
should shrink from all I shall leave behind, my memory. Louis is a bold
and noble boy. I fear not for him. His reason even now has the strength
of manhood. Mittie has very little sensibility or imagination; too
little of the first I fear to be very lovable. But perhaps it will be
better for her in the end. Helen is all sensibility and imagination. I
tremble for her. I am haunted by a strange apprehension that my memory
will be a ghost that she will seek to shun. Oh! Miss Thusa, you cannot
think how painful this idea is to me. I want her to love me when I am
gone, to think of me as a guardian angel watching over and blessing her.
I want her to think of me as living in Heaven, not mouldering away in
the cold ground. Promise me that you will never more give her any
terrible idea associated with death and the grave."

Mrs. Gleason paused, and pressing her handkerchief over her eyes, leaned
back in her chair with a deep sigh. Was this the quiet, practical
housekeeper, who always went with stilly steps so noiselessly about her
daily tasks that no one would think she was doing anything if it were
not for the results?

Was _she_ talking of dying, who had never yet omitted one household
duty or one neighborly office? Yes! in the stillness of the night,
interrupted only by the delirious moanings of the sick child, she laid
aside the mantle of reserve that usually enveloped her, and suffered her
soul to be visible--for a little while.

"I will try to remember all you've said, and abide by it," said Miss
Thusa, who, in her dark gray dress, and black silk handkerchief tied
under her chin, looked something like a cowled friar, of