"There's somebody dead down-stairs, there,—now,—this minute;—but dead,—dead,—gone beyond my reach.—Child! child! do you know, do you feel what I mean?"
"How can I? I haven't seen her; I never saw her."
"She's dead,—she's dead,—and I meant to—oh! I meant to do it before she died. Why didn't something tell me? Things do come and speak to me sometimes,—why not last night?"
I got anxious. Was this what the doctor meant by incoherent talking? Away up the village-street I heard the bell striking for midnight.
"It is time you were asleep; please try and sleep."
My words did not stay her; she went on,—
"If it only had,—then,—at the last,—she might have forgiven;—yes,—think, it might have been,—and it is not,—no, it is not!—and she lies dead, down-stairs, in the very room!—But are you sure? Perhaps she isn't dead. Such things have been."
Oh! what should I do? I thought of Katie. "The next door," she said; there were but two in the room; it must be this one, then. I opened it. "No, this is a closet,—dresses are hanging there," I thought; "but there is a door leading out from it." I looked back to the chair, where Miss Axtell still sat; she was talking to herself, as if I had not left the room. I could not venture to open this unknown door without a light to flow into its darkness. I went back into the room and took up a lamp.
"What are you doing?" Miss Axtell stopped to ask; then, forgetting me, she resumed her self-questioning.
I lighted the lamp and went into the closet. I said that there were dresses hanging there. Among them my eyes singled out one; it was not bright,—no, it was a grave, brown, plaid dress. I tried to call Kate. My voice would not obey me. My tongue was still. I grasped the knob and turned it; the door opened. Poor Katie! she was asleep. She started up, bringing the larger half of a dream with her, I'm sure. "It's not so dreadful. You have me left, father," she said, with her young face rosy, and very sleepy. I went close to her, put my hand upon the cover, and said,—