Honor started up, opened her mouth to cry "Hush!" then checked herself, suddenly frozen.
"Jim," cried the dying woman, "listen! Is that the death spider?"
Honor listened, her blood curdling. Then she went towards the door and opened it. "Jim," she said, in low tones, speaking towards the landing, "tell her it's nothing, it's only a mouse. She was always a nervous little thing." And she closed the door softly, and pressing her trembling sister tenderly back on the pillow, tucked her up snugly in the blanket.
Next morning, when Jim was really present, the patient begged pathetically to have a grandchild with her in the room, day and night. "Don't leave me alone again," she quavered, "don't leave me alone with not a soul to talk to." Honor winced, but said nothing.
The youngest child, who did not have to go to school, was brought—a pretty little boy with brown curls, which the sun, streaming through the panes, turned to gold. The morning passed slowly. About noon Mercy took the child's hand, and smoothed his curls.
"My sister Honor had golden curls like that," she whispered.
"They were in the family, Bobby," Honor answered. "Your granny had them, too, when she was a girl."
There was a long pause. Mercy's eyes were half-glazed. But her vision was inward now.
"The mignonette will be growin' in the gardens, Bobby," she murmured.
"Yes, Bobby, and the heart's-ease," said Honor, softly. "We lived in the country, you know, Bobby."