Youre so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you
My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last
“Look, Miss!” I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree. “Winter is not here yet. Theres a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in ber up, and pluck it to show to papa?”
How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead
Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length-“No, Ill not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?”
“Yes,” I observed, “about as starved and sackless as you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. ”
“No,” she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
“Catherine, why are you crying, love?” I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. “You mustnt cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.”
“Oh, it will be something worse,” she said. “And what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I cant forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. ”
“None can tell whether you wont die before us,” I replied. “Its wrong to anticipate evil. Well hope there are years and years to come before any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. Continue reading “Youre so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you”
