On the 6th instant, at the residence of her mother, on Church Hill, Rosa Laurens, aged nine years and seven days, of diphtheria. Funeral private.
It was Pansy’s youngest sister—the baby, as she was always called in the family. A wave of passionate grief overflowed Pansy’s heart and forced a cry of despair from her white lips. Then she slipped from her chair and lay in a long swoon upon the floor.
When reason returned she was lying upon her bed, with her maid chafing her cold hands anxiously, and her husband bending over her with frightened eyes.
“Oh, Pansy, what a shock you have given me!” he exclaimed; and as everything rushed quickly over her she realized that she must hide her troubles under a mask of smiles.
With a pitiful attempt at gayety, she faltered:
“You must learn not to be frightened at a woman’s fainting. It means nothing but temporary weakness.”
“Are you sure of that?” he asked. “Because——” Then he paused.
“What?” she questioned.
“I feared you had read something in that paper that grieved or frightened you,” he answered, remembering at the same time that when she had that illness in California Mrs. Scruggs had asserted that something she had read in a paper was the primary cause.
But Pansy denied that anything in the paper had affected her in the least.