“She is weary,” they said, in whispers. “Let her rest.” Kind neighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. “Let her rest,” said all.
But when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to a close, Mrs Snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. Graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to Mrs Snow’s question whether she felt rested, she said, “Oh! yes,” but she closed her eyes, and turned her face away again. Janet went out and seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. Just then, her husband came in.
“Is anything the matter?” asked he, anxiously.
“No,” said his wife, rousing herself. “Only, I dinna ken weel what to do.”
“Is Miss Graeme sick? or is she asleep?”
“I hope she’s no’ sick. I ken she’s no sleeping. But she ought to be roused, and when I think what she’s to be roused to—. But, if she wants to see her sister, it must be before—before she’s laid in—”
A strong shudder passed over her.
“Oh! man! it’s awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin—”
“Need she see her again?” asked Mr Snow.
“Oh! yes, I doubt she must. And the bairns too, and it will soon be here, now.”