As it had been with her old father, after he had bidden her a last
farewell, so it was now with Gudule. From that moment her days were
numbered, and although not a murmur escaped her lips, hour by hour she
wasted away.

One Friday evening, shortly after the seven-branched Sabbath lamp had
been lit, Gudule, seated in her arm-chair, out of which she had not
moved all day, called the two children to her. A bright smile hovered
around her lips, an unwonted fire burned in her still beautiful eyes,
her bosom heaved ... in the eyes of her children she seemed strangely
changed. "Children," said she, "come and stand by me. Ephraim, you stand
here on my right, and you, dear Viola, on my left. I would like to tell
you a little story, such as they tell little children to soothe them to
sleep. Shall I?"

"Mother!" they both cried, as they bent towards her.

"You must not interrupt me, children," she observed, still with that
strange smile on her lips, "but leave me to tell my little story in my
own way.

"Listen, children," she resumed, after a brief pause. "Every human
being--be he ever so wicked--if he have done but a single good deed on
earth, will, when he arrives above, in the seventh heaven, get his
Sechus, that is to say, the memory of the good he has done here below
will be remembered and rewarded bountifully by the Almighty." Gudule
ceased speaking. Suddenly a change came over her features: her breath
came and went in labored gasps; but her brown eyes still gleamed
brightly.