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affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to you

herself, and in her name it is that I speak now.'

'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man. 'We will not wake

her. I should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile.

There is a smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and

changeless. I would have it come and go. That shall be in Heaven's

good time. We will not wake her.'

'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you

were journeying together, far away--as she was at home, in the old

house from which you fled together--as she was, in the old cheerful

time,' said the schoolmaster.

'She was always cheerful--very cheerful,' cried the old man, looking

steadfastly at him. 'There was ever something mild and quiet about

her, I remember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature.'

'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this and in

all goodness, she was like her mother. You can think of, and remember

her?'

He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.

'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor. 'It is many years ago,

and affliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her

whose death contributed to make this child so dear to you, even before

you knew her worth or could read her heart? Say, that you could carry

back your thoughts to very distant days--to the time of your early

life--when, unlike this fair flower, you did not pass your youth alone.

Say, that you could remember, long ago, another child who loved you

dearly, you being but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother,

long forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last,

in your utmost need came back to comfort and console you--'

'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger, falling on

his knee before him; 'to repay your old affection, brother dear, by

constant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he

has never ceased to be when oceans rolled between us; to call to

witness his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days, whole

years of desolation. Give me but one word of recognition, brother--and

never--no never, in the brightest moment of our youngest days, when,

poor silly boys, we thought to pass our lives together--have we been

half as dear and precious to each other as we shall be from this time

hence!'

The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound

came from them in reply.

'If we were knit together then,' pursued the younger brother, 'what

will be the bond between us now! Our love and fellowship began in

childhood, when life was all before us, and will be resumed when we

have proved it, and are but children at the last. As many restless

spirits, who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the world,

retire in their decline to where they first drew breath, vainly seeking

to be children once again before they die, so we, less fortunate than

they in early life, but happier in its closing scenes, will set up our

rest again among our boyish haunts, and going home with no hope

realised, that had its growth in manhood--carrying back nothing that

we brought away, but our old yearnings to each other--saving no

fragment from the wreck of life, but that which first endeared it--may

be, indeed, but children as at first. And even,' he added in an

altered voice, 'even if what I dread to name has come to pass--even if

that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and spare us!)--still,

dear brother, we are not apart, and have that comfort in our great

affliction.'

By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner

chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he

replied, with trembling lips.

'You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You never will do

that--never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her--I

never had--I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late

to part us now.'

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he

stole into the room. They who were left behind, drew close together,

and after a few whispered words--not unbroken by emotion, or easily

uttered--followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made

no noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief

and mourning.

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The

solemn stillness was no marvel now.

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of

pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand

of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and

suffered death.

Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green

leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. 'When I die,

put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above

it always.' Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little

bird--a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have

crushed--was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its

child mistress was mute and motionless for ever.

Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues?

All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect

happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes.

The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed,

like a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the

poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon

the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had

been the same mild lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their

majesty, after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight

folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched

out to him with her last smile--the hand that had led him on, through

all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then

hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and,

as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if

imploring them to help her.

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she

had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast--the

garden she had tended--the eyes she had gladdened--the noiseless haunts

of many a thoughtful hour--the paths she had trodden as it were but

yesterday--could know her never more.

'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the

cheek, and gave his tears free vent, 'it is not on earth that Heaven's

justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the World to which

her young spirit has winged its early flight; and say, if one

deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her

back to life, which of us would utter it!'

CHAPTER 72

When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of

their grief, they heard how her life had closed.

She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time,

knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak.

They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night,

but as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what

she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings

with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had

helped and used them kindly, for she often said 'God bless you!' with

great fervour. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and

that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows.

It may have been.

Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they

would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a

lovely smile upon her face--such, they said, as they had never seen,

and never could forget--and clung with both her arms about his neck.

They did not know that she was dead, at first.

She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like

dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much she

thought about them, and how she had watched them as they walked

together, by the river side at night. She would like to see poor Kit,

she had often said of late. She wished there was somebody to take her

love to Kit. And, even then, she never thought or spoke about him, but

with something of her old, clear, merry laugh.

For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet

mind, and manner quite unaltered--save that she every day became more

earnest and more grateful to them--faded like the light upon a summer's

evening.

The child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon as

it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to

lay upon her breast. It was he who had come to the window overnight

and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small

feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which she lay,

before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that they had left

her there alone; and could not bear the thought.

He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored

to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying

that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being

alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all day long when he

was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his

wish; and indeed he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a

lesson to them all.

Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once--except to her--or

stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favourite, he

was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would

have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears

for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of

this child had done him good, left them alone together.

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to

take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And

when the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from

earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she

was taken from him.

They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was

Sunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and as they traversed the

village street, those who were walking in their path drew back to make

way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some shook the old

man kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and

many cried 'God help him!' as he passed along.

'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young

guide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are nearly all in black

to-day? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a piece of crape on almost

every one.'

She could not tell, the woman said.

'Why, you yourself--you wear the colour too?' he said. 'Windows are

closed that never used to be by day. What does this mean?'

Again the woman said she could not tell.

'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what this

is.'

'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you promised.

Our way is to the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and

where you found us, more than once, making those garlands for her

garden. Do not turn back!'

'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.'

'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but just

now?'

'True. True. It was her we left--was it?'

He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if

impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the

sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the

fire. Both rose up, on seeing who it was.

The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the action

of an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough.

'Do you--do you bury any one to-day?' he said, eagerly.

'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.

'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!'

'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly. 'We

have no work to do to-day.'

'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to the

child. 'You're sure of what you tell me? You would not deceive me? I

am changed, even in the little time since you last saw me.'

'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with ye

both!'

'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly. 'Come, boy, come--' and

so submitted to be led away.

And now the bell--the bell she had so often heard, by night and day,

and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice--rung

its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so good.

Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless

infancy, poured forth--on crutches, in the pride of strength and

health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life--to

gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and

senses failing--grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and

still been old--the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living

dead in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.

What was the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl

and creep above it!

Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen snow

that covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under the