In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The worn strings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. In her full, low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody:
| "When I am dead, my dearest, |
| Sing no sad songs for me; |
| Plant thou no roses at my head, |
| Nor shady cypress tree; |
| Be the green grass above me |
| With showers and dewdrops wet; |
| And if thou wilt, remember, |
| And if thou wilt, forget. |
"I shall not see the shadows, |
| I shall not feel the rain; |
| I shall not hear the nightingale |
| Sing on, as if in pain: |
| And dreaming through the twilight |
| That doth not rise nor set, |
| Haply I may remember, |
| And haply may forget." |
The deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, into the golden Autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearance wholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away.
Eloise closed the door and Roger and Allan brought Barbara in. She bent down to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "Good-bye, dear Daddy," she sobbed. "It is Barbara who kisses you now."
When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both, Roger stayed behind, with Barbara. Doctor Conrad had said, positively, that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed.
The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold little hand in his. "There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara, dear?"
The Pity of It
"No," she sobbed. "That is the pity of it. There is never anything to be said or done."
"I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply. "Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I."