Paula the Waldensian | Page 7

direct in the
whole affair. His last prayer had been for us; asking God to bless our
family that we might all be guided into the straight and narrow Way
that leadeth unto life eternal. Then followed certain details relative to a
small inheritance that Paula possessed, and the prayer of the Pastor
himself that the temporal and spiritual happiness of the little orphan
might be maintained.
"Is that all?" asked Catalina.
"Yes," said Rosa; "that is the end of the letter."
"Poor little thing!"
There was a long silence. I think Catalina was thinking of her mother,
for her face had softened for once.
Teresa sat with her large agile fingers flying--those strong fingers that
were never idle;--the metallic sound of her needles alternating with the
happy song of the canaries, from whose cages the curtains had again

been removed.
Never in my life had I lingered very long to observe Catalina, but this
afternoon I could not help but notice how pale and delicate she really
was. Propped up on her pillows with her golden hair falling around her
shoulders, one would not have guessed her to be more than fourteen
years old, instead of eighteen. Seeing her thus after her day of
sufferings, I pardoned all her bad humor and hardness of heart toward
Paula; and I had a great desire to take her in my arms but I did not dare
do such a thing--fearing she would refuse my caresses.
"Teresa," she said suddenly, closing her eyes to keep back the tears,
"do you think that it hurts very much when one dies?"
"Why do you ask that?" and Teresa looked at her quite surprised.
"I was thinking of Uncle John."
"That depends, Catalina, that depends. There are some persons who die
tranquilly in their sleep with no pain at all, but in the case of others it is
quite the contrary."
"But afterward, Teresa! How about afterward? What happens to us
after death?"
"Afterward?" Teresa looked puzzled. "Nobody knows what happens to
us afterward. When I was a little girl, my mother who was a very pious
woman, told us that if we were very good we would go to heaven, but
if we were bad we went to hell. I believe she was right, poor woman,
but it is sometime since I have thought of religious things, and your
father does not like to have us talk about it."
"I know that, Teresa, but I can't help thinking about it often and often.
Was our mother a 'pious woman?'"
"Not exactly--at least, not before she became ill. Her relatives in
Villar--your Aunt and your Uncle John used to write lovely letters to
her, that spoke of God and heaven and prayer. Your mother used to

sigh after reading them, and sometimes she would read me a page or
two from those letters, and would say to me, 'My good Teresa, we both
ought to think about these things! My sister is far more happy in her hut
on the mountain-side in Waldensia than we are here in the midst of
abundance. It must be wonderful not to fear death and to love God with
all our heart' When she spoke thus to your father he laughed at her and
said. 'Now, don't you worry about that, darling, you couldn't be any
better than you are now; and I am glad that you are not like these pious
ladies who try to tell you what will happen to you after death. You'll
have plenty of time to think about those things when you come to your
last days; but now with your good health and robust constitution you
can count on a good old age.'"
"But father was mistaken, Teresa!"
"Yes, he certainly was mistaken, poor man. Nobody could have
believed that when on that Monday afternoon she complained of a little
pain in her throat, she would die on the following Thursday."
"Was it diphtheria, Teresa?"
All that poor Teresa could say amid her tears was, "Poor, poor little
beloved one! Never shall I forget her last moments or the desperation
of your father. From his very first visit the doctor said that there was no
hope. I thought I would go insane when he said that! How I remember
her the day before she was taken ill, in all her youth and
beauty--singing as she worked, and then suddenly came that terrible
pressure in her throat."
"Then, Teresa, you remember, she could not kiss us goodbye."
"No, poor lady, that was her greatest pain when they told her that her
sickness was very contagious. But--there! there! Catalina, I did not
mean to make you cry, and I have told you this story so many times,
and now here I am telling it over again like