it to her stepmother. Mrs. D'Albert drank it off greedily; afterward
she seemed refreshed and she made Cecile put another pillow under her
head and draw her higher on the sofa.

"You're a good, tender-hearted child, Cecile," she said to the
little creature, who was watching her every movement with a kind of
trembling eagerness. Cecile's sensitive face flushed at the words of
praise, and she came very close to the sofa. "Yes, you're a good
child," repeated Mrs. D'Albert; "you're yer father's own child, and
he was very good, though he was a foreigner. For myself I don't much
care for good people, but when you're dying, I don't deny as they're
something of a comfort. Good people are to be depended on, and you're
good, Cecile."

But there was only one sentence in these words which Cecile took in.

"When you're dying," she repeated, and every vestige of color
forsook her lips.

"Yes, my dear, when you're dying. I'm dying, Cecile; that was what
the doctor meant when he said I'd he quite well; he meant as I'd lie
straight and stiff, and have my eyes shut, and be put in a long box
and be buried, that was what he meant, Cecile. But look here now,
you're not to cry about it--not at present, I mean; you may as much
as you like by and by, but not now. I'm not crying, and 'tis a deal
worse for me; but there ain't no time for tears, they only weaken and
do no good, and I has a deal to say. Don't you dare shed a tear now,
Cecile; I can't a-bear the sight of tears; you may cry by and by, but
now you has got to listen to me."