Old Carroll lived among them quietly—paying his taxes, going his own way and expressing himself freely upon every subject but his own affairs.
A week after his seizure he died, and a lawyer's clerk came from town and took possession of the house and charge of the funeral—in very different fashion from what his neighbors expected, for the body was taken away and sent to the great city, which in their eyes typified Babylon with all its sin and splendor.
The lawyer's clerk spoke with much deference of the dead man, and signified that the name of Carroll was high in the land; whereat the villagers bethought themselves that they had entertained an angel unawares, and were inclined to accuse the dead man of "doing" them.
Mrs. Deans boasted much of the intimacy of her husband with the old soldier, and speedily forgot the latter's impious sneers at foreign missions.
The farm was advertised for sale, and Disney bought the land he had so long worked on shares. Disney and his family moved into the empty house. Conjecture and interest gradually died away.
In the great city a woman with brittle, dyed hair and simpering lips and powdered throat laughed as, turning over a trunk full of odds and ends packed by the lawyer's clerk, she came upon a miniature set in pearls—laughed and looked at the picture long; but the laugh died as she noted the freshness of the pictured face. Crossing the room, she set the miniature against her own cheek and leaned close to a mirror, comparing the two. And presently she cast the painting from her and fled from the mirror with widened eyes.
"I am old—old!" she said. "He is dead, and I am old! It is this room, which is too light—it is glaring—horrible!" And she drew even closer the shades of silk, through which the light shone with a soft roseate glow. Then she searched for and found the picture where it had fallen on a soft rug, and again went to the mirror.
But if the dimmer light softened the lines in her face, it gave the pictured face another charm—the soft illusion of mystery and youth. The woman gazed at the dual reflection long until her breath blurred the mirror, so that all was blotted out save the brightness of the gold frame and a pair of wild, questioning eyes. A sharp sob parted her lips, and the mirror was empty.
Not long after, this woman was found dead. By her side was an empty bottle, such as they sell poison in, and in her hand was a painting of a beautiful woman framed in gold. Those who found her said the picture resembled her a little.
But this was far away from Jamestown, where Myron lived and suffered. That winter was a very busy one for her. Tender of touch, strong of arm, brave of heart, she was an ideal nurse. It is said a great grief has before now made a poet out of what was only a man. Myron's sorrows had changed her from a commonplace woman to a creature of most subtle sympathies. The pleading of pained eyes was eloquent to her, and the curves of dumb lips told her the tale of their sufferings. The touch of her hand brought rest, the pressure of her palms, peace; whilst the infinite sympathy from a heart that had itself been smitten eased those pangs which, keener than any physical anguish, rend those that are near death.