“Mr. Wayt died at midnight,” reported the Fairhill papers. “He never regained consciousness. The heroic daughter who lost her life in attempting to rescue a beloved parent lived until daybreak.
“‘They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided.’”
“I must be going, dear heart!” whispered Hetty’s namechild, as the August dawn, made faint by showers, glimmered through the windows. “I cannot see you. Would Mr. March mind kissing me ‘good-by’?”
“Mind?” He could not restrain the great sob. A tear fell with the kiss.
“Dear little friend! my sweet sister!”
The glorious eyes, darkened by death and almost sightless, widened in turning toward him. She smiled radiantly.
“Thank you for calling me that. Now, Miss May! And poor mamma! I wish I had been a better child to you! Hetty, dearest! hold me fast and kiss me last of all! You will be very happy, darling! But you won’t forget me—will you? I heard the doctors say”—a gleam of the old fantastic humor playing about her mouth—“that I had swallowed the flame. I think they were right—for the—bitterness is all—burned—out—of my heart!”