"Who are you? Where am I?" she asked again.
"I am Sara Olmstead, a King's daughter, come to stay with you this
afternoon; and you are in a good woman's room, who is now gone to her
work."
The eyes closed again, and an expression of pain or regret passed over
the face.
"Do you suffer?" asked Sara gently.
The head was shaken slightly.
"Not in body, but I'm almost sorry it wasn't true."
"What, Bertha?"
"My first thought, that it was all over, and you were the angel
appointed to waken me in the other world."
The tone, weak almost to whispering, was infinitely sad, and Sarah
thrilled with sympathy. That one so young should long for death seemed
incredible to her hardy nature. But nothing more was said till,
bethinking herself, Sara asked,--
"Could you eat anything now?"
The eyes opened quickly.
"Yes," she said eagerly, "yes."
Sara hurried to light the little stove and make the tea, managing also
to brown a slice of bread over the flame. She looked for milk and
butter, but found none.
"There is only sugar for your tea," she began.
"Never mind," said the eager voice again, "let me have it. Oh, how good
it smells!"
Sara brought the plain little repast to the bedside, and, rising to her
elbow, the young girl partook with an eagerness that was pitiful.
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