Then, in a few earnest, touching words, Mrs. Netterville set before her daughter the duties of her new state of life, and gave advice, which, precious as it would have been at any time, was doubly precious then, coming as it did from the lips of a dying mother; after which, true to an idea ever uppermost in the Irish mind, and which she had too thoroughly adopted her husband's country not to feel as keenly upon almost as he could have done himself, she adverted to her own place of burial.
"It cannot be at Netterville, I know," she said. "I may not sleep, as I had ever hoped, by the side of my brave husband! But in your new western home, dear Nellie—in your new western home, where the churches, I believe, are yet undesecrated—there, if it be possible, I would gladly take my rest—there, where you can come sometimes to pray for your poor mother, and where, when my husband's father follows me, as no doubt he must full soon, he can be laid quietly to sleep beside me."
She paused, and Nellie muttered something, she hardly knew what, which she hoped would sound like an assent in her mother's ears. Not for worlds would she have saddened her at such a moment by allowing her to discover that Roger, like themselves, had been robbed of his inheritance, and that, instead of that quiet western home of which she spoke so confidently, her wedded life with him must be spent of necessity in a foreign land.
Whatever she did or did not say, her mother evidently fancied it was a promise in conformity with her wishes, and went on in that low, rambling way peculiar to the dying:
"It was not thus—not thus that I had thought to visit that wild land. I dreamed of a resting-place and a welcome—a meeting of mingled joy and sadness—and then a homely life, and at its close a peaceful ending. But it is better as it is—much better. Our next meeting will be all of joy—joy in that eternal home where God gathers together his beloved ones, and bids them smile in the sunshine of his presence. Yes, yes! it is better as it is!"
"As God wills. He knows best—he knows," and then Nellie stopped, powerless to complete the sentence.
"Remember me to my father, Nellie, "Mrs. Netterville continued faintly—"for father I may truly call him who has been in very deed a parent to me ever since I was wedded to his son. And poor Hamish also—let him not think himself forgotten, and tell him especially of the gratitude I feel for this great consolation procured me by his faithful service—my Nellie's heart to rest on in dying—my Nellie's hands to close my eyes in death."
The last words were barely audible, and after they were uttered Mrs. Netterville lay for a long time so mute and still that, fancying she was asleep, Nellie hardly dared to move, or even almost to breathe, lest she should disturb her. At last she felt her mother's hand steal gently in search of hers.
"Your hand, dear Nellie," she whispered softly. "Nay, do not speak, my daughter, but take my hand in yours, that I may feel, when I cannot see, the comfort of your presence."