The tears rushed to Perior’s eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Ah!” she said quickly, “it is much better to die. I love you.” She looked up at him from the circle of his arms. “How could I have lived?”
At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her fragile shoulders he said, stammering—
“Dear child—in dying—you have let us know you—and adore you.”
The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. “Perhaps—I told you—hoping it——” she murmured. These words of victorious humility were Mary’s last. When Camelia came in a little while afterwards she saw that Mary’s smile knew, and drew her near; but standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at Perior; his head was bowed on the hand he held; his shoulders shook with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her.
For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior’s solemn look the sense of final awe smote upon her.
“She is dead,” he said.
To Camelia the smile seemed still to live.
“Dead!” she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary’s breast.
“Not dead!” said Camelia, “she had not said good-bye to me!”