They went, Diana shading her eyes from the still form on the bed. The drawer was unlocked and a white cashmere burial robe was found, covered by a sheet of white tissue paper.
“Just as I expected the moment you told me that the lower drawer was locked,” remarked Miss Flint. “She was exactly the woman to prepare for this in order to be independent of her neighbors. Well, it saves a day’s work, so I am not the one to complain.”
Sustained by the self-reliance of her companion, Diana became of “some use,” as Miss Flint expressed it, and did as directed with many a longing to be away from it all.
The beautiful form of Mrs. Ashley was neatly arrayed in the robe and Diana waited for further orders.
“Give me a pair of scissors and I will cut off a lock of her hair; her sister may want it. But stop, you need not go! I have mine with me.”
“I don’t see how you can bear to cut off her hair,” said Diana nervously, as the snip, snip of the scissors fell upon her ear.
“It is lovely,” commented Miss Flint as she held up a glossy tress, “and it curls naturally.”
“Yes, many a rich woman would give half she possesses for such a splendid head of hair, and could envy her in many ways. Mrs. Lattinger said she was a lovely young creature when she came as a bride to Dorton, and has changed very little since. Now she looks like one of the beautiful marble statues in the Peabody Institute, if it were not for the long, dark lashes resting upon her cheeks.”
“She was a beauty and no mistake, but as proud as Lucifer. Pride and poverty killed that woman, or my name is not Jerusha Flint.”
“She was always kind and gentle and polite to me,” responded Diana tearfully.