She stood by her chair, grasping the carved back, and Dr. Grey stepped forward, and drew her arm under his.
In her great weakness she leaned upon him, and when they reached the parlor door, she paused and almost panted.
“You must not attempt to play,—you are too feeble even to sit up longer. Let me take you back to your room.”
“No,—no! Let me alone. I know best what is good for me; and I tell you my piano is my only Paraclete.”
Holding his arm for support, she drew a chair instead of the piano-stool to the instrument, and seated herself.
Dr. Grey raised the lid, and waited some seconds, expecting her to play, but she sat still and mute, and presently he stooped to catch a glimpse of her countenance.
“I want to see Elsie’s grave. Open the blinds.”
He threw open the shutters, and came back to the piano.
Through the window, the group of deodars was visible, and there, bathed in the mild yellow sunshine was the mound, and the faded wreath swinging in the breeze.
For many minutes Mrs. Gerome gazed at the quiet spot where her nurse rested, and with her eyes still on the grave, her fingers struck into Chopin’s Funeral March.