She said this in a kind, comfortable murmur, her hands laid on the old woman’s brow. Now supporting her head, now chafing her listless hands, as she lay where they had left her, by the water. And the great tears of love and pity ran from her eyes, falling on her tattered garments.
Miles Coverdale waited till the last lingerer in that angry crowd had left the scene, and even after they had all dispersed, he stood lost in meditation.
“Why do the heathen so furiously rage together, and the people imagine a vain thing?” he murmured, as he turned his steps towards the Manor-house. Then the children heard the heavy oak door shut behind him, as he disappeared from their sight.
Mrs. Inchbald ceased speaking, and there was silence for a space. Then someone asked—
“What became of the old woman?” and somebody else said,
“Did she die?”
Mrs. Inchbald replied—
“Look at the Nasmyth, and you will find the answer there, my dears.”
The children rose, and crowded round the picture, looking at it with interested eyes. And what did they see?