“Well,” said the sick man, breaking it in a satisfied tone, as if he had been answered, “I wasn’t worth it ... but I’m glad You came. I wish they had a frost, poor things! You won’t go away? Well, I’m glad. Poor things! Poor things! I’ll take Your hand, if You’ve no objections.”
After a little time, he added, in a tone of unutterable tenderness and content:
“Dear Lord!” and said no more.
It was a quiet night. The stars rode on as if there were no task but the tasks of stars in all the universe, and no sorrow keener than their sorrow, and no care other than their motion and their shining. The web of cloud floated like exhaling breath between them and the earth. It grew cooler before the dawn. The leaves of the palmetto over Scip’s grave seemed to uncurl, and grow lax, and soften. The dust still flew heavily, but the wind rose.
The Sunday-bells rang peacefully. The sick heard them, and the convalescent and the well. The dying listened to them before they left. On the faces of the dead, too, there came the look of those who hear.
The bells tolled, too, that Sunday. They tolled almost all the afternoon. The young Northerner, Dr. Remane, was gone,—a reticent, brave young man,—and the heroic telegraph operator. Saturday night they buried her. Sunday, “Bobby” took her place at the wires, and spelled out, with shaking fingers, the cries of Calhoun to the wide, well world.
By sunset, all the bells had done ringing and done tolling. There was a clear sky, with cool colors. It seemed almost cold about Scip’s hut. The palmetto lifted its faint head. The dust slept. It was not yet dark when a little party from the city rode up, searching for the dreary place. They had ridden fast. Dr. Frank was with them, and the lady, Marian Dare. She rode at their head. She hurried nervously on. She was pale, and still weak. The chairman of the Relief Committee was with her, and the sub-committee and others.
Dr. Dare pushed on through the swinging door of the hut. She entered alone. They saw the backward motion of her gray-sleeved wrist, and came no farther, but removed their hats and stood. She knelt beside the bed, and put her hand upon his eyes. God is good, after all. Let us hope that they knew her before they closed.
She came out, and tried to tell about it, but broke down, and sobbed before them all.
“It’s a martyr’s death,” said the chief, and added solemnly, “Let us pray.”