The old woman awakened her daughters. ‘Rise, my dear girls,’ said she, ‘and pray for the soul of her who is losing her life for your sakes.’
By the time they got up she was in the agonies of death.
‘Fall down on your knees, my childer,’ said she, ‘and pray to God to smooth her way to heaven.’
We sunk down with one accord by the bedside, and while they offered up their fervent prayers, her soul winged its way to a world where her benevolent deeds would be appreciated and rewarded. Poor Dennis had held her hand in his for some time before she died, and he did not relinquish it, until the old woman came over to him and said, ‘O Dennis, astore, she is gone!’ when he started to his feet, and gazing intensely on the corpse for a few minutes, he stooped down and imprinted a last kiss on her cold and livid lips, which but a few days before had glowed in all the vermilion of health; then turning about, he sat down in a corner of the room without saying a word.
After a pause of an hour, during which they were busily employed in offering up prayers for the soul of the deceased,—‘Come, my dear,’ said the mother to the elder girl, ‘we may as well get her laid out while she is warm, for I believe she hasn’t much to travel.[18] Boys, you had better go home and try and get some rest.’
Dennis was for guard next day, and could not accompany me; but when I returned I found the old woman and her daughters, weak as they were, had not been idle. The bed on which Peggy had lain was removed and burnt, the walls of both apartments white-washed with lime, and the floor strewed with mint and lavender. On the room door, which had been unhinged for the purpose, and placed resting on two chairs, was stretched the dead body, covered with a white sheet all but the face, which now wore a composed smile. Three candles lighted were placed at her head, ornamented with cut paper. Though the morning had been stormy, the younger girl had gone out and collected such flowers as the season afforded,—the snowdrop, the primrose, and the evergreen, and strewed them on the corpse.
The same dread that prevented the neighbours from visiting her in her sickness, restrained them from attending her wake; but it was so much the better—none but true hearts mourned over her—no tears were shed but those of affection—there was no boisterous or disgraceful mirth, such as I have witnessed on similar occasions. A few neighbours, more friendly than others, ventured into the outer apartment, and remained during the night; but the old woman and the two girls sat alternately, and sometimes together, at the head of the corpse—and apostrophizing the inanimate clay, they ran over every endearing quality that she possessed, adverted to the happy moments they had passed in her company, and with the tears trickling over their cheeks, chaunted the plaintive airs which she was partial to, and had often joined them in singing.
There was something in the scene so impressive and solemn, and in the simple tribute of affection to the remains of their friend so touching, that it was impossible to witness it without the heart whispering ‘it is good to be here.’ Having gone out for a few minutes to warm myself at the fire where the neighbours were sitting, I overheard one of the women repeating an irregular rhyme.
‘What is the meaning of that?’ said I.
‘It’s a rhyme,’ replied she, ‘that a poor innocent who frequented this used to repeat, and we happened to be talking about her.’