Surely there was no pain in her death—neither pain nor sorrow. A quiet passing into a better Land. An anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the Blood of the Lamb, on a Rock that could never be moved.
Just before she died she murmured something about the Queen.
“Tell ’er—ef she ’ears o’ me—not to fret—I’m well—the best way—and ’tis hall glory.”
So it was.
Chapter Twenty One.
The Prodigal’s Return.
In the evening after Flo’s funeral Mrs Jenks was seated by her bright little fire.
Nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. This might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of Flo.