An expression of ineffable peace crossed Mrs. Oldys's face.
"Yes, that is it," she whispered, smiling.
Unfalteringly Poppea sang to the end, and it was not until the last note died away in complete silence that Hugh raised his head.
Presently the doctor looked in, the nurse came forward with some nourishment, and so the night wore on, but it was not until the dawn began to scatter darkness that the frail hands gradually relaxed their loving clasp, and the nurse looking from the shadows beckoned the watchers away.
Through the passageway and down the stairs Hugh and Poppea passed together. Then Hugh left her for a moment, returning to say that Dr. Morewood would drive her home as she must have some rest as soon as possible.
Mrs. Shandy, coming out, begged her to wait and take a cup of coffee, but Poppea shook her head.
Out on the porch in the fresh, yet mysterious air of coming day, they waited for the doctor to bring his chaise. Below lay Moosatuck veiled in mist; beyond, the blue ridge of the hills; one bird called, then another, until half a hundred had picked up the anthem. Each moment it grew lighter, the darkness huddled cornerwise down the west, while the morning star and the harbor beacon paled together.
For a time neither spoke nor looked at each other, then Hugh broke the silence.
"In a few days, Poppea,—when I am no longer needed,—I shall be going away for a rest, a long rest, and perhaps it may be that afterward my life will lie in other places." Then suddenly breaking down, he grasped her hands, and pressing them to his lips, said, with a half-suppressed cry:—
"Little comrade! Little comrade! All that I can tell you, all that I must tell you, is that God himself could not have done more for me than you have this night."