A Girl of the People | Page 3

own brown strong hands, she bent down and
whispered in a husky voice,
"Mother--oh, mother!"
The woman looked up and smiled.
"You've come back, Bet?" she said. "Give me a drop of the cordial. I'm
glad you've come back. I thought it might have been the will of Him
who knows best that I should die without seeing of you again,
Elizabeth."
"Oh, no, mother--of course I've come back. I hurried home. I didn't stay
for nobody. How nice the room looks, mother--and the kettle boils. I'll
make you a cup o' tea."
"No, Bet, I don't want it; stoop down, and look at me. Bet, look me in
the eyes--oh, my girl, my girl!"
Bet gazed unflinchingly at her mother. The two faces were somewhat
alike--the same red gleam in the brown eyes, the same touch of red on
the abundant hair; but one face was tired, worn out, and the other was
fresh and full and plump. Both faces had certain lines of hardness,
certain indications of stormy, troublous souls looking through the eyes,
and speaking on the lips.

"I'm going to die, Bet; Fin going back to the good God," panted Mrs.
Granger." he doctor have been, and he says mebbe it'll last till morning,
mebbe not. I'm going back to Him as knows best,--it's a rare sight of
good fortune for me, ain't it?"
"I don't believe you're going to die," said Bet. She spoke harshly, in an
effort to subdue the emotion which was making her tremble all over.
"Doctors are allays a-frightening folks. Have a cup o' tea, mother?"
"It don't frighten me, Bet," said Mrs. Granger. "I'm going away, and
He's coming to fetch me; I ain't afeard. I never seemed more of a poor
sort of a body than I do to-night, but somehow I ain't afeard. When He
comes He'll be good--I know He'll be good to me."
"Oh, you're ready fast enough, mother," said Bet, with some bitterness.
"No one has less call to talk humble than you, mother. You was allays
all for good, as you calls it."
"I was reg'lar at church, and I did my dooty," answered Mrs. Granger.
"But somehow I feels poor and humble to-night. Mebbe I didn't go the
right way to make you think well on religion, Bet. Mebbe I didn't do
nothing right--only I tried, I tried."
There was a piteous note in the voice, and a quivering of the thin
austere lips, which came to Bet as a revelation. Her own trembling
increased violently; she threw herself down by the bedside and sobs
shook her.
"Mother, mother, it have all been hateful, hateful," she moaned. "And
oh, mother, why did you burn my book?"
There was no answer. The white thin hand rested with a certain tremble
on the girl's thick hair.
"Why did you burn my book, that gave me pleasure, mother?" said Bet,
raising her head, and speaking with her old defiance.
"I thought," began Mrs. Granger,--"mebbe I did wrong,--mebbe I were

too 'ard. Him that knows best will forgive me."
"Oh, mother, mother! I forgive you from the bottom of my heart."
Bet took one of the thin hands, and covered it with passionate kisses.
"I ain't good," she said, "and I don't want to die. It floors me, mother,
how you can be glad to go down into the grave and stay there-- ugh!"
"I ain't going to stay there," replied the dying woman, in a faint though
confident voice.
She was silent then for a few moments, but there was a shining,
satisfied light in her eyes; and her lips opened once or twice, as if to
speak. Bet held one of her hands firmly, and her own eager hungry eyes
never stirred from the dying, tired-out face.
"Bet."
"Yes, mother."
"You'll make me a bit of promise afore I go?"
"A promise, mother?"
"Yes, a promise. Oh, Bet, a promise from you means an awful lot. You
don't break your word. You're as strong as strong,--and if you promise
me this, you'll be splendid--you'll be--give me a drop of the cordial,
child,--you'll be--I have been praying about it all day, I have been
saying, 'Lord, send Bet in gentle-like, and trackable-like, and with no
anger nourished in her heart, and, and,--another sip, child--the breath's
short--I--you'll make me the promise, won't you, child?"
"Oh yes, poor mother, if I can!"
"Yes, you can; and it'll be so splendid. There, I'm stronger, now. Him
as knows has given me the strength. Why, you're me over again, Bet,
but you're twice as grand as me. You're me without my frets, and my
contrariness. Fancy, Bet, what you'd be in this 'ere place ef you made

that promise. Why, strong?--strong 'ud be no word for it! You, with
never your temper let