Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried, “Where is sister Amy—can’t I see her?”
“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”
“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while from his eyes gleamed a look of intense, imploring agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t, don’t say that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she would not die and leave me alone!”
Trying to release her hands from his tightening grasp, she cried, “Boy, you don’t know what you’re saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine; for, after you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing! I tried to do every thing I could for her, and told her you would come back. But nothing would do—she would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were all glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too, for she is much better off. She was such a poor little delicate creature, she wasn’t fit to be in this cold world without a mother.”
Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness of his utter loneliness came over him. Not a cry escaped his lips—not a sigh. There he stood—his wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.
“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams, forcing back her tears. “She’s better off; come and see the boys”—taking his hand to lead him away.
Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said, “Wont you tell me where they have put her?”
“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you can’t tell hers from any other.”
“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where they have laid her. Lead me to the spot, and I will never trouble you again!”
Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone marked the spot of their repose.