Mrs. Will Werrit rose at once.
“Can we give you a lift, Mr. Deane? We were going in a few minutes, so it makes no matter. Rose can come home with her cousins. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Tom, has gone to the old lady already. No one can say that it won’t be a happy release.”
It seemed so strange—after the noise and bustle and laughter—to sit in the back seat of the Werrits’ cart and see the house and garden gradually receding in the starlight. Every pulse was thrilling still to the remembered touch of his arm about Elizabeth—to the fragrance of her as she rested for a second so near him—to the sweetness of her eyes as she had glanced up at him.
For Andy was in love, after the fashion which is supposed to be dying out. However, so far, the young lover still sees his lady infinitely fair: and when that changes——
Well—it is a pleasant thought—we shall be somewhere else.
It was so late that the June dawn was breaking as Andy stood by the side of the old woman’s bed in his dress clothes, his round face kind and grave beneath his ruffled hair, his young voice most clear and solemn in the still morning.
“Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit thee. The Lord bless thee and keep thee.”
The familiar word seemed to spread round the old dying woman a precious atmosphere of love and peace—to speed her forth on the long journey with a certainty of joy and welcome at the journey’s end.
“Margaret,” cried the old woman suddenly, in quite a loud voice, “get up. It’s wash morning!”
Then she died.