She had not shed a tear since Annie died, and her own hands had made the little form ready for the grave.
“Don’t touch her; she is mine; I will do all myself,” she had said, almost fiercely, to Aunt Luna, when she first came in to care for the body.
She had also rejected Maude’s and Edna’s offers of assistance, and they had left her alone with her dead, and her own bitter thoughts, which nearly drove her mad, as she washed the little hands, and remembered when she had first felt their touch, and the thrill that touch had sent through every nerve. Then they were warm and soft, and she could have crushed them in her palm. Now they were cold and stiff, and she kissed them passionately, and drew the dainty white sleeves over the wasted arms, and combed, and brushed, and curled the silken hair, and felt glad that death had not robbed Annie of her beauty, as she finally laid her upon the couch, and then sat down beside her, unmindful that her rich dress was soiled and defaced, and her lace torn in more places than one. She took the tea and toast Jack brought her, because she knew he would insist until she ate, but she would not leave the room, and Mrs. Burton found her there, and called her a “poor dear,” and wondered at her grief, and felt half glad that the child was gone at last out of Georgie’s reach.
“I shall stay here till after the funeral,” she persisted, in replying to her aunt’s entreaties for her to go back to New York; and when Mrs. Burton asked where Annie was to be buried, she answered, “In Greenwood, of course.”
“Has your brother a lot there?” was Mrs. Burton’s next question; and Georgie replied:
“No, but he can have.”
And after her aunt was gone she went to her brother, and giving him a costly diamond ring, said to him:
“It is my right and wish to bury Annie, and bear the whole expense. Convert the ring into money and see to it for me. I want her laid in Greenwood.”
“In any particular spot?” Jack asked; and Georgie answered him:
“Yes, there’s a vacant spot near his grave. It has been there for years.”