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 favor. "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 forever.
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, there had been the same mild lovely look. So shall we
know the angels in their majesty, after death.
The old man 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.
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