The doctor feels the pulse of the woman, or rather lays an inquiring finger where the slightest thread of vital current is scarcely throbbing, and shakes his head mournfully. The touch of his hand rouses her,—her large wild, melancholy eyes fix themselves on him with an inquiring glance, then she shivers and moans,—
"Oh, Doctor, Doctor!—Jamie, Jamie!"
"Come, come!" said the doctor, "cheer up, my girl, you've got a fine little daughter,—the Lord mingles mercies with his afflictions."
Her eyes closed, her head moved with a mournful but decided dissent.
A moment after she spoke in the sad old words of the Hebrew Scripture,—
"Call her not Naomi; call her Mara, for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me."
And as she spoke, there passed over her face the sharp frost of the last winter; but even as it passed there broke out a smile, as if a flower had been thrown down from Paradise, and she said,—
"Not my will, but thy will," and so was gone.
Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey were soon left alone in the chamber of death.
"She'll make a beautiful corpse," said Aunt Roxy, surveying the still, white form contemplatively, with her head in an artistic attitude.