“Oh!—that—was—such—relief. I am—ever—so much—better now”—and died.
It was so sudden at the last—so awfully sudden—that even strong Roma was stupefied by the event, and could not realize it. She set the sanguine bowl on the table and gazed at the dead form. She was aroused by the low voice of Owlet, saying:
“Mamma is better now. She is always better after one of these. It is bad to look at, but it makes her better; she always says so. She is better, really, now, is she not?” pleaded the child, looking in doubt at the changed features of her mother.
“Yes, my darling, she is better now,” said Roma in a broken voice as she took the hand of Owlet to lead her away.
But the child was now gazing in terror at the face of death. She snatched her hand from Roma’s clasp and flung herself upon the dead bosom, crying:
“Mamma! mamma! Oh, mamma! What is the matter now? What makes you look so? Oh, ma’am, what is the matter with my mamma? Why don’t she speak to me?”
Roma lifted the child in her arms, sat down on the sofa, held her to her heart, and said:
“Your mamma is better, my darling—better than she ever was in all her life before. God has taken her now, and made her well.”
“No, He hasn’t! There she is, and something awful is the matter with her! Oh! let me go to my poor mamma!” sobbed the child, struggling to get out of the arms of her friend.
Roma would not coerce her; she let her go. And Owlet rushed back to the side of the dead, and began to kiss and hug and cry and call, without meeting any response.