Mrs Snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only said cheerfully:
“My dear, you were weary, and they have had Emily.”
She would not be tender with her, or even help her much in her preparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. Janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done; she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she had done right in rousing her. She was ready at last.
“Are they come?” asked Graeme, faintly.
“No, dear. There’s no haste. Rest yourself a wee while. My dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?” added she, as Graeme rose.
“Yes, I think so. But I would like to go alone, first.”
“My poor lamb! If I were but sure that I have been right,” thought Janet, as she sat down to wait.
An hour passed, and when the door opened, and Graeme came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at rest.
“She hasna’ been alone all this time, as I might have known,” said Janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. “I’m faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but I needna fear for them. The worst is over now.”
And was the worst over? After that was the covering of the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. There was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life; the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. There was the vague unbelief in the reality of their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden remembrance,—the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her gone.