“Oh, no! Please don’t touch me! I don’t mind the cold. I don’t want anything to eat! I want to stay here with my mamma—my own mamma!” Owlet pleaded, struggling to retain her place.
Under any other circumstances but that of the intense cold of the room, Roma would have let the child have her way; but now she gently expostulated with her.
“It has turned bitterly cold within the last few hours, darling, and the heat is turned off the room, and all the windows are open, and you will be sick if you stay here.”
“I don’t mind being cold or sick! I want to stay here with mamma, poor mamma—my own dear mamma!”
“But, love, your mamma is not here; she is well and happy in a better place. But you will make her unhappy if you stay here in the cold by the body that she has left, and make yourself ill. Cannot you understand that, Catherine?”
“Oh, yes, I know! I know!” gasped and sobbed the child. “I know, but I can’t help it! I can’t help it! I am not possessed of common sense myself now! But I can’t help it! You may take me!” she cried, holding out her arms to the lady, who lifted her, pressed her to her bosom, and bore her away.
Three days later, on Friday afternoon, the mortal remains of Marguerite Nouvellini, followed only by the officiating clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Martin; Roma, little Catherine, the lawyer and the physician, were borne to their last resting place at Oak Hill Cemetery, where, in the little Gothic chapel, the religious services were held, and Roma took the orphan home to her own heart.
As soon as the party returned to the house Roma requested her two old friends, Lawyer Merritt and Dr. Mix, to enter with her, as she wished to consult them.
They accompanied her to the parlor of her flat, where she sat down, with little Catherine on her lap, and begged them to be seated.
Then she said: