"Aunt Raby is a good woman," continued Priscilla; "she is
brave, she is a heroine. Although she is just a commonplace old woman,
no one has ever led a grander life in its way. She wears poor
clothes-- oh, the poorest; she has an uncouth appearance, worse even
than I have, but I am quite sure that God-- God respects her-- God
thinks her worthy. When my father and mother died (I was fourteen when
my dear mother died) Aunt Raby came and took me home and my three
little sisters. She gave us bread to eat. Oh, yes, we never quite
wanted food, but before we came Aunt Raby had enough money to feed
herself and no more. She took us all in and supported us, because she
worked so very, very hard. Ever since I was fourteen-- I am eighteen
now-- Aunt Raby has done this. Well," continued Priscilla, slow tears
coming to her eyes and making themselves felt in her voice, "this hard
work is killing her; Aunt Raby is dying because she has worked so hard
for us. Before my three years have come to an end here, she will be
far, far away: she will be at rest forever-- God will be making up to
her for all she has done here. Her hard life which God will have
thought beautiful will be having its reward. Afterward I have to
support and educate the three little girls.
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