She had some flowers at her belt—she would leave them for the little lady—she must see her again before she went. More——
She must break the tidings.
She knocked again—the knock of indecision.
Not a sound.
She opened the door gently, and entered.
In the room, in her old-world taffeta-covered chair, before the fire, very still, sat Miss Flora Jennyns; and the girl knew by the quick instinct within her that Death waited at the window.
About the narrow shoulders was drawn the India shawl, the weary hand holding the overlapping ends at the withered throat; and on the third finger of the hand was the ring of splendid jewels that sparkled in paint in the picture beyond her.
Here was the picture—grown old—vanishing.
And the old shoe that peeped from the crumpled threadbare skirts upon the quaint old wool-worked footstool—ah, how shabby! worn with careful brushings—of what gentle uncomplaining penury were these things not sign and emblem!
So she sat, fading away in the winter’s light, her dying eyes on the fire’s warmth, and her lips smiling on her little triumphs of long ago—a little withered roseleaf, blown across the footlights of the world’s rude theatre.