"I know," she repeated, "what it was. 'Twas the earthy principle in me--which revived--for a moment--at the last--and then put forth all its strength. Since I have seen David--it seems pleasant--to go. I can't tell,--you wouldn't understand,--I couldn't, if the separation--hadn't begun. I'm not wholly here now." And the fixed, strange look in her face confirmed the words as they fell from her lips.
She lay for some time very still, breathing every moment fainter and fainter, but seemingly in no distress.
Suddenly she started. Her face grew radiant. Her gaze seemed fixed on some point, thousands and thousands of miles away. Clasping her hands together, she cried out, joyfully,--
"Oh, the beautiful home! the beautiful home!"
'Twas over in an instant. She closed her eyes, turned her head a little on the pillow, and breathed her life away as softly and peacefully as a poor tired child sinks away to sleep.
"And I saw the angels of God ascending and descending," I said, earnestly. For I felt that one whose spiritual eyes were opened might certainly do so.
Late in the afternoon, when the heat of the day was past, I walked out to the clump of maples on the knoll. Mary Ellen was already there.
"Yes," said I, sitting down by her side, upon the grass, "we will lay her here among her friends. And we will place here a white marble monument."
"I wish," said Mary Ellen, looking timidly up in my face, "that it could be in memory of David, too." She said this with tears in her eyes, and an unsteady voice.
As I sit writing, I can see from my window the simple white monument, which Mary Ellen and I planned together. The grass and field-flowers are growing all about it, and the birds, Emily's birds, are singing in the branches above. It has only this inscription,--
"Six children,--and only one grave to show for all of them!" groaned the poor old mother, when we first led her out to show her the stone.
But there was shortly another grave beneath the maples; for the worn-out old woman soon sank after Emily's death, and with her last breath begged to be laid by her side.
Only the old man and Miss Joey left. Still I could not go away. No other place seemed like home. And besides, I had found out, long ago, my own secret. It had been revealed to me, day by day, as I watched Mary Ellen in the sick-room of Emily,--as I observed her patience, her sweetness, her tenderness!