Margaretta, leaning over, drew a flask from Roger’s pocket. Then, slipping past the motionless Berty, she knelt before her grandmother.
“Dearest, I brought a stimulant with me. Will you have some?”
“But I have no need of it,” said Grandma, opening wide her strangely beautiful eyes.
It seemed to Margaretta that she could not endure their bliss, their radiance. She turned her head quietly away, and, with a rain of tears falling down her face, sat looking out over the river.
Presently controlling herself, she again turned to her grandmother. Perhaps there was something she could do for her. Her hands might be cold. They were, and Margaretta, taking them in her own, chafed them gently.
Grandma smiled quietly. “Always thoughtful—my dear, you will be a mother to Bonny.”
“I will,” said the weeping girl.
“Do not be unhappy,” said Grandma, pleadingly. “I am so happy to go. My earthly house is in order. I long for my heavenly one.”
“But—but, Grandma, you have been happy with us,” stammered Margaretta.