“I know it,” she sighed; “but Gordon, if you marry, as I hope you may, you will not feel it so hard to put another in the place I did not quite fill, as——”
“Oh, my love, my love! was it for my sake you refused?” and the man’s tears fell upon her like rain; “as if I could ever put another in your place; as though my life were not over to all intents and purposes now.”
“I want Phemie,” was the only answer she made, and Phemie drew near. “You will be friends when I am gone,” she went on, speaking thickly and with difficulty. “You will not grow to be quite strangers to one another as time goes by. You will let Gordon talk about me to you, won’t you, dearest. And Gordon,” he stooped his head, and Phemie drew back—“if ever you think—in time—do not let any thought of me—remember I wished——”
Fortunate was it for Phemie that she had no idea of what caused Major Morrice’s face to flush so painfully in an instant—what made him look aside as she arranged the pillows for her who would so soon have done with earth—for her who was passing swiftly to that land where no kindly offices avail—where love, and tenderness, and regret, and unselfishness are equally useless and vain.
All the day long they never left her; all the day long she lay waiting for death to come, and it was quite evening ere she went.
Beside her were some flowers, fresh gathered in the morning, withered and dying.
“The flower fadeth,” she said, feebly, turning towards Mr. Aggland; and, answering her thoughts, he answered—
“But the word of our God shall stand for ever.” A few minutes more and it was all over.
“Comfort him for me, Phemie,” were her last words; and with her hand clasped in that of the man she had loved so faithfully, she fell asleep.
She lived, as she had desired, till the flowers sprang and the trees budded; and she left this world certain about the next.