"Yes," said Mrs. Dering.
"Well, well, I might have known that the good Lord would fix it some way. That's just the thing. I'll do it, Elizabeth; I will. Where's my snuff-box and satchel! It's pretty near train time."
Jean ran to get them, while Mr. Congreve went up stairs to say good-bye to Ernestine; and when he went off at last, it was in the gayest possible spirits, with promises to be back as soon as Roger started abroad; and so all the sadness was taken from the parting.
They thought he would be back in, at least, a month, but the time lengthened itself into three and four, and yet he did not come. Roger was sick, to begin with, and did not gain strength very rapidly, and nothing could have made the old man leave him.
"But I can stand it very well," he wrote. "I know that it's not going to last, so I can keep up plenty of spirits, with thinking of the time when I will come. The boy is getting better fast, and as soon as he settles up a little business, he is off, and then I will shut up and be off likewise, in a hurry."
But they at home, found hands and hearts busy with new work that was sadly brief and bitter. As the warm weather came, Ernestine began to fail rapidly. She suffered no new pain, and uttered no complaint, but as the days went by, and the intense heat of summer burned all purity and life from the air, she just seemed to droop, and bow her head feebly beneath the oppressive heat; and the frail stem of life snapped, with the weight of its own slight self. They had hoped against hope, that the sad end could be fought off, and with the first coming of warm days, Mrs. Dering had proposed going to the sea-side with her; but Dr. Barnett, who had fought eagerly and desperately with the dread disease, told them that it would do no good. The excitement might only hasten the end, and better to leave her quiet, and so contentedly happy as she seemed, than to bring new faces and new scenes to worry and distract the last feeble remnant of her strength. So they submitted themselves to his word, as one of authority, and took upon themselves the sad duty of watching a loved life drift peacefully out, and trying to say, as the end drew near: "Thy will be done."
The big rocking-chair, the pretty wrappers, and gayly colored sacques were all laid aside now. The feeblest strength could no longer lift the frail form, and all the patient sufferer said when lifted or moved was, "I'm so tired; that will do; it is quite easy." Then the short breath would give out, and she could only thank them with her eyes, that daily grew more eloquently beautiful, as though the spirit, refined through suffering, were taking its last, long farewell look at mother and sisters, and uttering wordless thanks, which the heart loving then framed, but the lips weakly refused to utter.
"The end is not far off," Dr. Barnett said, one sultry August night, after he had left the sick-room. "I shall go down and telegraph for Olive to come on the first train."
Mrs. Dering laid her clasped hands on his arms with a little gasp, as of one long expecting a bitter draught, and finding the cup held to her lips at last. But she was very quiet.
"You think it will come to-night?"