She had no pain, no distress. Soon—perhaps in the night, perhaps next day—would come the terrible anguish in her chest, the wild struggle for breath. She must not go far from the house, she would halt by the old playground where she had romped with her little brother, and barely entering the wood she sat down in the shade of some underbrush beside the pond.
How fair was this world! How transcendent must be the beauty of the other world to eclipse this! She leaned back against a tree and mused on deep and unutterable things until there was a soft footfall beside her.
"Dear pony," she said, and, with a new fondness added to her old fondness for all created things, she stroked the head dropped caressingly before her.
After a time she started to get up, but could not do so.
"Ah," she said, quietly, and she lay back against the tree.
A carpenter going home with his tools a few minutes later had occasion to pass the pond. He touched his hat when he saw her, and was greeted calmly and called to her side. "Can you give me a pencil and a piece of paper, Mr. Munro, and if you are not in a hurry would you be kind enough to go and sit yonder for a short time? If I do not speak at the end of ten minutes come to me. I want to send a message to my niece, and shall be obliged if you will leave it at the door as you go by."
The man cheerfully complied with her request. In common with the whole town, he had heard that she was not likely to live long, but she looked better to-day than he had ever seen her before. Her eye was bright,—almost triumphant. Perhaps she had conquered her complaint.
Miss Gastonguay fingered the broad-pointed pencil. "Only ten minutes, perhaps less. I am not mistaken this time,—let me make haste," and, laying the paper on a flat stone beside her, she wrote firmly: "To Chelda, my beloved niece. The conversation will not take place, but I forgive, fully, freely. May God bless you. Forget the past,—forget, forget. Look steadily forward. Leave French Cross and be happy. My blessing always,—always. Never forget it. Nothing would change it, nothing you could say or do. No one has told me anything, but I suspected and know the truth."
She stopped for a few minutes. The pain was coming on. One look she cast up at the brave blue of the sky, then she went on, "Derrice Mercer, my dear friend. Good-bye, good-bye. Keep clean your sweet soul. Train wisely all who may come to you. Do not forget me. We shall meet again. Do not lose heart. Trust your husband; he will advise."
This time the pencil fell from her grasp, and an acute spasm of pain contracted her features. She pressed her hands to her throat, and gasped for breath. When it came, she seized the pencil and wrote, hurriedly, "I have offended some. I pray all to forgive me. In this last hour I think kindly, so kindly of all. Would that my poor death could bring happiness to all I know. Good-bye, dear townspeople. On the whole, we have lived happily together. I beg you, I pray you, I beseech you to meet me in a better world. Would that I could comfort some sore hearts before I go.