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.
They carried her to an old nook, where she had many and many a time sat
musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed
on it through the colored window--a window where the boughs of trees
were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all
day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in
the sunshine, some trembling changing light would fall upon her grave.
One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and
how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive
face upon the sky. Another told how she had loved to linger in the
church when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower stair with no
more light than that of the moon's rays stealing through the loopholes
in the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the oldest that she
had seen and talked with angels. Then, when the dusk of evening had come
on, with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned away, and left the
child with God.
Oh, it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach;
but let no man reject it, for it is a mighty, universal Truth.
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