"Yes, Auntie."
And then Amy began to cry.
"Better take them away," Edwin suggested aside to Albert. "It's as much as she can stand. The parson's only just gone, you know."
Albert, obedient, gave the word of command, and the room was full of movement.
"Eh, children--children!" Auntie Hamps appealed.
Everybody stood stockstill, gazing attendant.
"Eh, children, bless you all for coming. If you grow up--as good as your mother--it's all I ask--all I ask.... Your mother and I--have never had a cross word--have we, mother?"
"No, auntie," said Clara, with a sweet, touching smile that accentuated the fragile charm of her face.
"Never--since mother was--as tiny as you are."
Auntie Hamps looked up at the ceiling during a few strained breaths, and then smiled for an instant at the departing children, who filed out of the room. Rupert loitered behind, gazing at his mother. The mere contrast between the infant so healthy and the dying old woman was pathetic to Edwin. Clara, with an exquisite reassuring gesture and smile picked up the stout Rupert and kissed him and carried him to the door, while Auntie Hamps looked at mother and son, ecstatic.