The sound seemed to disturb Miss Hagar. She turned her face, with a troubled look, on the grief-bowed head of the young girl.
"Do not weep for me, Celeste, but for yourself. Who will care for you when I am dead?"
"I will!" said the squire, solemnly; "she is my own flesh and blood, and all that I have is hers. She is the long-lost, the rightful heiress of Mount Sunset Hall."
A smile of ineffable peace settled on that dying face. "Then I can go in peace," she said; "my last care is gone. Good-bye, Celeste. God bless you all! Tell my brother I spoke of him; and ask Minnette to forgive me. Minnette—Minnette——"
The words died away. She spoke no more. Her long, weary pilgrimage was over, and Miss Hagar was at rest.
"Don't cry—don't cry," said the squire, dashing a tear from his own eyes, as he stooped over the grief-convulsed form of Celeste. "She's gone the way of all flesh, the way we must all go some day. Everybody must die, you know; it's only natural they should. 'In the midst of death we are in life,' as Solomon says."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"LAST SCENE OF ALL."
"Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow—
Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain."