There was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away to her long home.
There were none of her blood to follow her thither. The place of mourners was given to Mrs Inglis and David, and then followed Debby and her sister. A great many people followed them; all the towns-folk joined in doing honour to Miss Bethia’s memory, and a few old friends dropped over her a tear of affection and regret. But there was no bitter weeping—no painful sense of loss in any heart because she had gone.
David sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again to the empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him of having been through it all before. It clung to him still, as one after another of the neighbours came dropping in. He sat among them, and heard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks, and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they were waiting to see.
Debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly making preparations for tea; and once Debby came and looked in at the door, with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might be needed, and by and by Serepta came and looked, too, and David got very tired of it all. His mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in, and he went in search of her.
“Mamma, I wish we could have gone home to-night,” said he, when, in answer to his knock, she had opened the door.
“It was late, dear, and Mr Bethune said he would like to see me before we went away.”
“About the books, mamma? I wish I knew about them.”
“You will know soon. I have no doubt they will be yours, as Miss Bethia intimated before we left them here. There may be some condition.”
“I wonder what all the people are waiting for? Are you not very tired, mamma? Debby is getting tea ready.”
Debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement.