But her grandfather’s whispered blessings brought comfort with them, and a calm quiet fell upon her as she sat listening to the words of prayer, catching now and then her own name and that of Guy’s.
“I am drowsy, Maddy. Watch while I sleep. Perhaps I’ll never wake again,” grandpa said, and clasping Maddy’s hands he went to sleep while Maddy kept her watch beside him, until she too fell into a troubled sleep, from which she was roused by a clammy hand pressing on her forehead, and Uncle Joseph’s voice, which said:
“Wake, my child. There’s been a guest here while you slumbered,” and he pointed to the rigid features of the dead.
CHAPTER XX.
THE BURDEN GROWS HEAVIER.
Of the days which followed, Maddy had no distinct consciousness. She only knew that other hands than hers cared for the dead; that in the little parlor a stiff, white figure lay; that neighboring women stole in, treading on tiptoe, and speaking in hushed voices as they consulted, not her, but Mrs. Noah, who had come at once, and cared for her and hers so kindly. That she lay all day in her own room, where the summer breeze blew softly through the window, bringing the perfume of summer flowers, the sound of a tolling bell, of grinding wheels, the notes of a low, sad hymn, sung in faltering tones and of many feet moving from the door. Then friendly faces looked in upon her, asking how she felt, and whispering ominously to each other as she answered:
“Very well; is grandpa getting better?”
Then Mrs. Noah sat with her for a time, fanning her with a palm-leaf fan and brushing the flies away. Then Flora came up with a man whom they called “Doctor,” and who gave her sundry little pills and powders, after which they all went out and left her there with Jessie, who had been crying, and whose soft little hands felt so cool on her hot head, and whose kisses on her lips made the tears start, and brought a thought of Guy, making her ask, “if he was at the funeral.” She did not know whose funeral she meant, or why she used that word, only it seemed to her that Jessie had just come back from somebody’s grave, and she asked if Guy was there.
“No,” Jessie said; “mother wanted to write and tell him, but we don’t know where he is.”
And this was all Maddy could recall of the days succeeding the night of her last watch at her grandfather’s side, until one balmy August afternoon, when on the Honedale hills there lay that smoky haze so like the autumn time hurrying on apace, and when through her open window stole the fragrance of the later summer flowers. Then, as if waking from an ordinary sleep, she woke suddenly to consciousness, and staring about the room, wondered if it were as late as the western sun would indicate, and how she came to sleep so long.