Yet, after all, though sad, it was very quiet and simple. Granny lay flat in her bed, looking much as usual, save that the face surrounded by the night-cap frill was thinner, and gentler, perhaps, and more kind.
"Come round to the other side, dear," she said softly, as Audrey approached her, and only then did Audrey realise that granny's right arm and side were helpless.
She was very white as she stooped down to kiss her grandmother, and her lips trembled.
"It is all right, dear; don't you grieve about me," granny whispered. She was so weak she could not speak very well. "I am quite ready— anxious—to go. I am very glad you came to me, Audrey; you have made me very happy."
Audrey knelt down by the bed, holding her granny's hand in both hers. "I—oh, granny, I wish I had never left you!" She pressed the fragile hand against her cheek caressingly. "I—I didn't want to go. I shall have home and the others always, and you only for a little while." Her sobs choked her.
"Dear, you do not know—no one knows—how long you may have each other, and it was your duty to go. Your mother was ill, and needed you; I was well, and had many to take care of me. I did not want to let you go, but I was glad afterwards, when I saw you again, I knew it had been best for you. Keep to the path you have set your feet on so bravely, dear."
Granny's voice died away. She was too tired to talk any more. "To-morrow," she gasped; "send nurse—now."
So Audrey, with another lingering kiss, crept softly away, to spend the long lonely evening among the shadows in the great drawing-room, where everything seemed to speak to her of her granny. Here was her work-table, with her work neatly folded, as she had left it. Here was her book with a folded piece of paper in it for a marker. She could not bear it any longer. In her own room the pain might be less cruel.
Audrey sobbed herself to sleep that night, but before that she had made one more resolution, with her prayers. In all the days to come, God helping her, she would 'Leave no tender word unsaid.' She would strive hard that these bitter memories, this reproach, should never again be hers.
"Out of sight and out of reach they go.
These dear familiar friends who loved us so,
And sitting in the shadows they have left,
Alone with loneliness, and sore bereft,
We think, with vain regret, of some kind word
That once we might have said, and they have heard."