“And least of all, it appears, the man she was to have married.”
“He?—Melville? How can you wrong him so? His grief was intense—overpowering—for the time.”
“For the time! what time?” muttered Kenelm, in tones too low for the pastor’s ear.
They moved on silently. Mr. Emlyn resumed,—
“You noticed the text on Lily’s gravestone—‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’? She dictated it herself the day before she died. I was with her then, so I was at the last.”
“Were you—were you—at the last—the last? Good-day, Mr. Emlyn; we are just in sight of the garden gate. And—excuse me—I wish to see Mr. Melville alone.”
“Well, then, good-day; but if you are making any stay in the neighbourhood, will you not be our guest? We have a room at your service.”
“I thank you gratefully; but I return to London in an hour or so. Hold, a moment. You were with her at the last? She was resigned to die?”
“Resigned! that is scarcely the word. The smile left upon her lips was not that of human resignation: it was the smile of a divine joy.”