It was a pleasant room she had,
suggestive of her taste--soft carpet and brightly-cushioned chairs, a
tall mirror reflecting the lilies on the stand, and a glimpse of Queen's
Park through the open window. The next day was Sunday, and Beth sat by
Marie while the others went to church. They listened quietly to the
bells peal forth their morning call together, and Beth noted with
pleasure that it seemed to soothe Marie as she lay with closed eyes and
a half smile on her lips.
"Beth, you have been so much to me this summer. Your letters were so
sweet. You are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she stroked Beth's hair
softly with her frail, wasted hand.
"Do you remember when I used to pride myself on my unbelief?" Her breath
failed her for a moment. "It is past now," she continued, with a smile.
"It was one Sunday; I had just read one of your letters, and I felt
somehow that Jesus had touched me. I am ready now. It was hard, so hard
at first, to give up life, but I have learned at last to say 'His will
be done.'"
Beth could not speak for the sob she had checked in her throat.
"Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I want to talk to you, dear.
You remember the old days when that trouble came between you and--and
Clarence.
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