The room grew very silent, for neither Meg nor Robert had any heart for conversation. Gertie sat in her usual place at the foot of the bed, dry-eyed and sad, watching her father’s white face.
Outside, in the hall, could be heard the murmur of voices. It seemed to disturb the sick man at last, for, opening his eyes, he asked, “Is it the neighbor-women waiting to see me die? Just tell them that I’m not at home to callers, will you?”
He tried to laugh at his pitiful little joke, but the laugh was so hollow that it startled even himself. He nodded as Robert and Meg arose, and said, “Yes, send her in, I want her. Good-bye, dear friends,—God bless you!”
They started for the door, when he called feebly, “Meg!”
“Yes,” she cried, running back to him.
“Don’t let the doctor or any one disturb us. I just want her,—and little Gertie.” As she started again he caught her hand and said entreatingly, “Be good to her, little cousin!”
When she found Ada and sent her in to him, she whispered, “If you need me, call me, dear.”
From the room came the sound of Ada’s sobs, above which, with remarkable strength, arose Charlie’s voice, encouraging and cheering. Then weaker and weaker it grew,—and ceased altogether.
A moment later a wild shriek rang through the house, and Meg, running in, found Ada in a swoon on the floor, while Gertie, the child, with an expression of heart-breaking despair, was striving to lift her mother’s head, though she never took her eyes from the still, white face on the bed.
Meg and Robert left the house an hour later. There was nothing more they could do, for the Masons, to which lodge Charlie belonged, were in charge of the body, and the neighbor-women had taken possession of Ada and Gertie.