“What do you think of her, Doctor?”
Mrs. Floyd put the question. The tone had in it something that made me look narrowly into the speaker's face. My ears had not deceived me.
There was the wish in her heart that Delia might die!
I was not surprised at this. And yet the revelation of such a state of feeling, in so good and true a woman, as I had reason to know Mrs. Floyd to be, made my heart bound with a throb of pain.
Alas! alas! Into what unnatural conditions may not the mind fall, through suffering that shuts out human hope!
“Nature,” said I, in answer to the question of Mrs. Floyd, “may be only gathering up her powers after a long period of exhaustion. The strife through which your daughter has passed—calmly passed to all external seeming—has not been without a wasting of internal life. How she kept on so evenly to the end, passes my comprehension. There is not one woman in a thousand who could have so borne herself through to the final act. It is meet that she should rest now.”
“If she were sleeping with her babes, happy would it be for her!”
Tears fell over the face of Mrs. Floyd.
“God knows what is best,” I remarked.
“She has nothing to live for in this world.” A sob broke from its repression, and heaved the mother's bosom. “O Doctor, if I saw the death dews on her brow, I would not weep!”