She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me incessant questions.
"Let us keep her away from the grave," she said.
I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you here?"
"Mother is dead," she answered.
A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!—her goodness and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity—I felt them all. I pitied her dead, because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears, but sighed heavily. Duty sounded through her sighs. "Verry, shall I take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, "Perhaps."
"You must go to your own room and rest."
"Can you keep everybody from me?"
"I will try."
Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs.
"Temperance," said Verry.