“Papa, darling, can't we do something to relieve you?” asked Mercedes. He shook his head and whispered:
“Too late. The sins of our legislators!”
“Do you feel pain, father?” Gabriel asked.
“Not now,” he whispered, extending his hand to George as if to say good-by. He looked again to see whether every one of his family was there; he forgot no one; he seemed anxious to see them all for the last time. He extended his arms to his wife; she came to him. “Pray for me,” he whispered, moving his lips as if in prayer, and leaning on Gabriel, who held him, closed his eyes and sighed. A few aspirations followed that last sigh, and all was over—his noble soul had passed away.
For some moments no one believed that his lofty and noble spirit had left the earth, but when the truth was at last realized, the scene of grief, of heart-rending agony, that followed would be impossible for me to describe.
Closely in the sad train of this mournful event, and as a fitting sequel and a complement of such dire misfortune, another disaster, more unexpected, more dreadful and tragic, followed, which must now be related. It shall be told as briefly as possible.
A few days had passed after the funeral, and the Alamar family were still in town. Doña Josefa and Mercedes were at the Mechlins. Victoriano, Carlota and Rosario were at the Holmans; that is, they slept there, but as Mercedes was again prostrated with fever, they, as well as the Holmans, divided their time between the two houses.
One morning Mr. Mechlin arose from the breakfast table and said he was going hunting.
“Don't go far, James; you are too weak,” said Mrs. Mechlin.
“I think, papa, you ought not to carry that heavy gun. You eat nothing, and walk too far, carrying it,” Caroline said.