All the answer she made was to lie on his arm and cry silently, abjectly murmuring something that he could not hear.
"I thought it best to ask Rosaline to come, as you would not believe me. When I told her of the mischief that was supposed to have been afloat, she was more eager to come than I to send her."
"Forgive me, Frank! Please don't be harsh with me! I am so ashamed of myself; so sorry!"
"It is over now; don't think about it any more," kissing her very fervently.
"I will never be so stupid again," she sobbed. "And—Frank—I think I shall—perhaps—get well now."
Rosaline had said that Death's shadow lay upon her mother even while she was talking with Mrs. Raynor. In just twenty-four hours after that, Death himself came. When the day's sunlight was fading, to give place to the tranquil stars and to the cooler air of night, Mrs. Bell passed peacefully away to her heavenly home. She had been a great sufferer: she and her sufferings were alike at rest now.
It was some two hours later. The attendant women had gone downstairs, and Rosaline was sitting alone, her eyes dry but her heart overwhelmed with its anguish, when Blase Pellet came to make a call of inquiry. He had shown true anxiety for the poor sick woman, and had often brought her little costly dainties; such as choice fruit. And once—it was a positive fact—once when Rosaline was absent, Blase had sat down and read to her from the New Testament.
"Will you see her, Blase?" asked Rosaline, as he stood quiet and silent with the news. "She looks so peaceful."
Blase assented; and they went together into the death-chamber. Very peaceful. Yes: none could look more so.
"Poor old lady!" spoke Blase. "I'm sure I feel very sorry: almost as though it was my own mother. Was she sensible to the last?"