When he bade Mrs. Rothesay good night, she held his hand, and said, “God bless you!” with more than her usual kindness. He drew back, as if the words stung him. Then he wrung Olive's hand, looked at her a moment, as if to say something, but said it not, and quitted the house.
The mother and daughter were alone. They clasped their arms round each other, and sat a little while listening to the wild March wind.
“It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it not, darling?”
“Yes, my child! And we have been very happy here; happier, I think, than I have ever been in my life. Remember that, love, always!”
She said these words with a beautiful, life-beaming smile. Then, leaning on Olive's shoulder, she lifted herself rather feebly, from her little chair, and prepared to walk upstairs.
“Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I could.”
“You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my feebleness, troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter!”
When Olive came down once more to the little parlour, she thought it looked rather lonely. However, she stayed a minute or two, put her mother's little chair in the corner, and her mother's knitting basket beside it.
“It will be ready for her when she comes down again.” Then she went upstairs to bed; and mother and daughter fell asleep, as ever, closely clasped in each other's arms.