“I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,” said Margaret. “I cannot help it! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that he had not to turn to any one else.”
“He never would!” cried Dr. May, almost angrily.
“I tried to think he ought,” said Margaret. “His life would have been too dreary. But it is best as it is.”
“It must be,” said the doctor. “Where are the rest, Ethel? Call them all down.”
Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her! She found her hanging over the nursery fire, alternating with old nurse in fond reminiscences of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at his pranks, then crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, drinking in each word.
Blanche and Gertrude came from the schoolroom, where Miss Bracy seemed to have been occupying them, with much kindness and judgment. She came to the door to ask Ethel anxiously for the doctor and Miss May, and looked so affectionate and sympathising, that Ethel gave her a hearty kiss.
“Dear Miss Ethel! if you can only let me help you.”
“Thank you,” said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. Nothing was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there should be a hurry. Then she could be warm, and not morbid.
Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the great Prayer-book. He read a psalm and a prayer from the Burial Service, and the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he touched each of their heads, and, in short broken sentences, gave thanks for those still left to him, and for the blessed hope they could feel for those who were gone; and he prayed that they might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the same holy place, and in the meantime realise the Communion of Saints. Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they arose.
“Mary, my dear,” he said, “you have a photograph.”