But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested upon the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes full of dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned and left him alone with his dead.
For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near.
At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot where her dead lay.
“We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here,” she said. “You know we love her dearly.”
“It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven,” Barney replied, his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. “She loved this valley, and it was here she first found rest.”
“Yes, she loves this valley,” replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. “And here she found peace and perfect love again.”
A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she had made her London debut in “Lohengrin.” There in the sunny valley they laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with their tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears, only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace.