"I was very healthy when a little child," replied Emma. "This
feebleness came on me by degrees,--I can scarcely tell when it
commenced."
"Very likely," replied the farmer. "I lost two sisters by consumption;
they appeared much as thee does."
"Father!" exclaimed Margaret; and the old gentleman recollected
himself. "I don't conclude from this," said he, "that thy case is one
of consumption:" and he looked kindly into Emma's face, as though
desiring to be both considerate and sincere.
"It would not alarm me to hear you call it by that name," replied Emma.
"I am in the habit of regarding death as at the door; and wish so to
do, because I am thus constantly reminded that what my hands find to do
must he done with my might."
"I am glad to hear such a testimony from thee," said the old man,
earnestly. "It is a pity that any of us should forget the work to be
done in this world, and the shortness of time."
The dinner was now over, and Emma, greatly refreshed, shook hands with
the farmer and his family, promising to call again; and then took the
short way of the main road to her own home. The old man looked after
her, as her white dress glanced through the green trees by the
roadside, until she descended the hill, and was out of sight.
"What does thee think of that child, Sarah?" he asked, turning to his
wife.
"Well, Enoch," was the reply; "_I_ think that she is ripening for
glory.
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