As I sat, thinking how peacefully the hands lay, clasped together still, how sweet was the expression of the close mouth, and what a strange shadowy likeness the whole face bore to Muriel's little face, which I had seen resting in the same deep rest on the same pillow; some one touched me. It was Mrs. Halifax.
How she came I do not know; nor how she had managed to steal out from among her children. Nor how she, who had not walked for weeks, had found her way up hither, in the dark, all alone. Nor what strength, almost more than mortal, helped her to stand there, as she did stand, upright and calm—gazing—gazing as I had done.
"It is very like him; don't you think so, Phineas?" The voice low and soft, unbroken by any sob. "He once told me, in case of—this, he would rather I did not come and look at him; but I can, you see."
I gave her my place, and she sat down by the bed. It might have been ten minutes or more that she and I remained thus, without exchanging a word.
"I think I hear some one at the door. Brother, will you call in the children?"
Guy, altogether overcome, knelt down beside his mother, and besought her to let him take her home.
"Presently—presently, my son. You are very good to me; but—your father. Children, come in and look at your father."
They all gathered round her—weeping; but she spoke without single tear.
"I was a girl, younger than any of you, when first I met your father. Next month we shall have been married thirty-three years. Thirty-three years."
Her eyes grew dreamy, as if fancy had led her back all that space of time; her fingers moved to and fro, mechanically, over her wedding-ring.