For once Aunt Debby forgot to knit, and the kitten rolled the ball at pleasure, pausing sometimes in her play, and looking up in Jessie's face, as if to ask her the reason of its unwonted sadness, and why the hug and squeeze had been so long omitted.
To Walter, Ellen had been like a sister, and he went away to weep alone, while Mrs. Bellenger, not wishing to intrude on any one, withdrew to the quiet garden, and so the dreary afternoon went by, and when the sun was set and the moon was shining on the floor of the little portico the family assembled there, and drawing a little stool to the deacon's side Jessie laid her bright head on his knee.
The moonlight fell softly on her upturned face, heightening its dark, rich beauty, and Walter was gazing admiringly upon her, when a sound in the distance caught his ear, and arrested the attention of all.
It was the sound of horse's feet, and as the sharp hoofs struck the earth with a rapidity which told how swiftly the rider came, Jessie's heart beat faster with a feeling that she knew who the rider was. He passed them with averted face, and they heard the clatter of the iron shoes, as the steed dashed down the lane, over the rustic bridge, and up the grassy hillside.
Jessie had not told the family the story which broke poor Nellie's heart, for she would not inflict an unnecessary pang upon the mother, or the grandfather, but she wanted Walter to know it, and as the sound of the horse's feet died away in the distance, she said to him:
"Will you walk with me, Walter? It is so light and pleasant."
It seemed a strange request to him, but he complied with it, and as if by mutual consent, the two went together, toward the grave, whither another had preceded them.
In the city William had heard of the telegram sent to Jessie, and with a feeling of restless impatience, he at last took the cars, as far as the town adjoining Deerwood, where he stopped and heard of Ellen's death. He heard, too, that she was buried that very afternoon, and his pulses quickened with a painful throb, as as he heard the landlord's daughter, who had attended the funeral, telling her mother how beautiful the young girl was, all covered with flowers, and how Miss Graham from New York cried when she bent over the coffin.
He would see her grave, he said, he would kiss the earth which covered her, and so when the "candle was lighted in her dear old home," he came, a weary, wretched man, and stood by the little mound. He had almost felt that he should find her there, just as she was that August afternoon, when she lay sleeping with the withered roses drooping on her face.
She had told him of this hour, and bidden him pray when he stood so near to her, but he could not, and he only murmured through his tears: