"Well, Mr. Digby,—it's all up now!"
The gentleman paused on his way to the stairs and looked his inquiry.
"She aint there. Warn't she a good woman, though!" And Mrs. Marble's face was all quivering, and some big tears fell from the full eyes.
"Was?" said Mr. Digby. "You do not mean—"
"She's gone. Yes, she's gone. And I guess she's gone to the good land; and I guess she aint sorry to be free; but—I'm sorry!"
For a few minutes the kind little woman hid her face in her apron, and sadly blotched with tears the apron was when she took it down.
"It's all over," she repeated. "At two o'clock last night, she just slipped off, with no trouble at all. And the house does feel as lonely as if fifty people had gone out of it. I never see the like o' the way I miss her. I'd got to depend on her living up there, and it was good to think of it; there warn't no noise, more'n if nobody had been up there; but if I aint good myself and I don't think I be—I do love to have good folks round. She was good. I never see a better. It's been a blessin' to the house ever since she come into it; and I always said so. An' she's gone!"
"Where is Rotha?"
"Rotha! she's up there. I guess wild horses wouldn't get her away. I tried; I tried to get her to come down and have some breakfast with me; but la! she thinks she can live on air; or I suppose she don't think about it."
"How is she?"