"But you take it hard, man," answered his wife. "Don't you know that they've been children together, and it isn't as if she could see him with your eyes; besides, he's got a power o' money, Patrick, and that covers up many a blemish."
"I tell ye, Molly, a mint of gold wouldn't make any difference to the feelings o' that girl. Her heart's with the dying lad, and, mark my words, she'll never marry that simple cousin; but she'll cherish the green grave just as she did in the dream, and her thoughts'll be up in heaven with the absent spirit."
"It will be desput lonesome here when he's gone, Patrick," sighed the old woman; "but I s'pose it's our duty to take care of the grandmother as long as she lives!"
"To be sure, to be sure, Molly! We'll do well what we've undertaken, but I long to be back in the old shanty by the water, I kinder miss the old ways. Nothing but the lad would ever have brought me here, and he's fast going; it won't be many mornings that we can sit and look in even upon his sick-bed, Molly."
They couldn't talk about it any more, but they watched the old grandmother as she clutched at the shadows that the waving foliage made upon her white gown as she sat in the outer door, and they wondered why it could not be that she should go first, and the lad be spared them. It wasn't any good that she could do upon the earth, it wasn't any joy that she could ever again give! Truly, God's ways are not as our ways, nor His thoughts as our thoughts! Patrick and Molly could trust Him, even though the dark cloud was spreading itself over their way, and the sunshine was soon to be wholly removed from their dwelling.
CHAPTER XV.
The little room was darkened, and the still form was freed from all its pains—no more fear of the ridicule of an unfeeling world—no more struggling upward toward a tottering eminence—no more sighings after a higher sympathy than a narrow sphere can insure—no more tremblings and palpitations lest the desired good vanish from the sight—no more sinning nor sorrowing; but the quiet figure lay peaceful and still beneath the pure covering, with the bright flowers above and loving hearts around. There are no outbursts of anguish in the presence of the hallowed dead, but a calmness that speaks of the hope of a resurrection. The mother and her daughter are alone with the departed, and, as they look upon his placid features, Kittie recalls the time when she met him, years ago, in the scorching noontide heat, and contrasted his forlorn and pitiable condition with the pampered and luxurious state of her cousin Willie, and, as her mother's words recur to her, "Perhaps not a pity that he has not Willie's blessings, dear Kittie." She echoes in her own heart, "not a pity, not not a pity!"
Oh! no; the pity now is all for the high-born lad, whose privileges are all wasted and perverted, and could she choose for herself one of these two lives, she would not hesitate to take the lowly cottage on the plain, with all its sad inconveniences and distasteful accompaniments, with the exalted Christian mind, rather than the glory, and beauty, and ease of the great house, with the weakened intellect and the brutish soul.
There is a small trunk in Archie's chamber, with a card nailed upon the top, and the inscription, "Miss Kitty Fay;" and Patrick lifts it reverently, with no vain curiosity, and carries it to the "great house." He knows that it contains many a manuscript that helped to dry up the fount of life. They are all dedicated to Kittie, who inspired them; and it is a great comfort to be reading them over while he is lying there as if asleep and unable to speak. They make every thing plain to her concerning the past, and they confirm her in the vow that was made beneath the old elm, long ago. It is such a treasure, that precious legacy; so filled with beautiful thoughts, and so free from earthly dross. Besides, it is all her own, sacred from the world. No other eye has ever seen it, and nobody else can ever know the secret workings of the great mind that is no longer clogged by the crippled body.