to give it up to her eldest daughter, Mary.

Mary was at this time about twelve years old. One evening she was
sitting at the foot of her mother's bed spinning, and her little brothers
and sisters were gathered round the fire eating their potatoes and milk
for supper. "Bless them, the poor young creatures!" said the widow, who,
as she lay on her bed, which she knew must be her deathbed, was thinking
of what would become of her children after she was gone. Mary stopped
her wheel, for she was afraid that the noise of it had wakened her
mother, and would hinder her from going to sleep again.

"No need to stop the wheel, Mary, dear, for me," said her mother, "I was
not asleep; nor is it THAT which keeps me from sleep. But don't overwork
yourself, Mary."

"Oh, no fear of that," replied Mary; "I'm strong and hearty."

"So was I once," said her mother.

"And so you will be again, I hope," said Mary, "when the fine weather
comes again."

"The fine weather will never come again to me," said her mother. "'Tis a
folly, Mary, to hope for that; but what I hope is, that you'll find some
friend--some help--orphans as you'll soon all of you be. And one thing
comforts my heart, even as I AM lying here, that not a soul in the wide
world I am leaving has to complain of me. Though poor I have lived
honest, and I have brought you up to be the same, Mary; and I am sure the
little ones will take after you; for you'll be good to them--as good to
them as you can."