A strange change passed over the little gray face, like a gleam of sunlight on a wintry day—hardly that—like the watery nimbus of the sun through a cloud. It was little My's last smile.
"Mama's My," the woman whispered; and, true to his love-taught lesson, My strove to give the answer, "My's mama." The first word was articulate, the last but half-shaped ere the stiffening lips were drawn in the convulsion which ended time for little My.
Over him "the eclipsing curse of birth" had lost its power.
At daybreak nest morning a messenger knocked long at the door of the Holder cottage. He had been sent in haste to summon Myron back to the house she had left in such anger the day before. Finding he could get no response, he lifted the latch and entered the kitchen. It was empty. There was a strong odor of kerosene oil, and absolute silence reigned. The man crossed the kitchen to an open door, and looking in saw the bedroom. Upon a little table stood a lamp which had evidently burned itself out. The chimney was off, and a great sooty blotch against the wall showed how the wick had smoked. In a chair by the bed sat Myron Holder, her eyes fixed straight before her—her pose rigid—her face pale as that of the dead child she held upon her knees.
"What is it, Myron?" he gasped.
"He's dead," said Myron, in the hoarse tones of one whose throat muscles are constrained and swollen.
The man turned and made for Mrs. Warner's. The cottage soon filled. Myron neither stirred nor spoke. They took the child and prepared it for burial. They told her to eat, and she swallowed the bread and tea they placed before her. All her faculties were benumbed, absorbed in an effort to realize her loss.
* * * * * *
The little plain coffin was in the kitchen, surrounded by a group of people that filled the room—those who considered it part of a Christian's bounden duty to attend funerals. Mr. Prew, sent for by Mrs. Deans, had just finished his address. Myron, with bare head, and hands clasped on her knees, was seated by the coffin, gazing down at the face there, when there was a sudden stir at the door, and Mrs. Wilson pushed herself through the throng.
"Wait!" she said, authoritatively, to Mr. Muir, who was advancing to screw down the coffin-lid. "Wait!" Then she turned to Myron Holder. "Listen to me, Myron Holder," she said. "Is that child my grandson?"