more and more faintly. The difference between the wasted form,
with its feeble animation, and what it must soon become would seem
slight, but to the daughter it would be wide indeed. Love could
still answer love, even though it was by a sign, a glance, a whisper
only; but when to the poor girl it would be said of her mother,
"She's gone," dim and fading as the presence had been, manifested
chiefly by the burdens it imposed, its absence would bring the
depths of desolation and sorrow.

Going the poor creature evidently was, and whither? The child she
was leaving knew little of what was bright and pleasant in this
world, and nothing of the next. "Miss Jocelyn," she began hesitatingly.

"Don't call me Miss Jocelyn; I'm a working-girl like yourself."

"Millie, then, as Belle said?"

"Yes."

"Millie, do you believe in a heaven?"

"Yes."

"What is it like?"

"I don't know very well. It's described to us under every grand
and beautiful image the world affords. I think we'll find it what
we best need to make us happy."

"Oh, then it would be rest for mother and me," the girl sighed