“Where is she?”
“Just in the morning-room as usual, sir, reading. I left her there an hour ago—she had some letters to write, she said—and she was just as bright and cheery as could be—an’ a little while since I peeped in and she was sitting by the fire wi’ a book——”
“All right. I’ll go to her. If I want you, I’ll call.”
He entered the morning-room with a very quiet step. There was a bright fire sparkling in the grate, and Miss Letty was seated beside it, in her arm-chair, with a book on her knee, her back turned towards him. Her favourite bird was singing prettily in its cage, pecking daintily now and then at the bit of sugar she daily gave it with her own hands. The Major coughed gently. Miss Letty did not stir. Somewhat surprised at this, he advanced a little farther into the room.
“Letty!”
No answer.
“My God!”
He sprang to her side.
“Letty!—Letty dear!—Letty!—Not dead! Oh, Letty, Letty!—Not dead!”
A smile was on her sweet old face,—her eyes were closed. The great Book resting on her knee was the Book which teaches us all the way to Heaven,—and her little thin white hand, with its diamond betrothal ring sparkling upon it, lay cold and stiff upon the open page. Overcome by too great an awe for weeping or loud clamour in the presence of this simple yet queenly majesty of death, her faithful lover of many years knelt humbly down, broken-hearted, to read the words on which that hand rested.