" There was
not a tear on the homely faces turning from her bed, not a tint
of colour in the flowers they brought her, not a shiver of light
in the ashy sky, that did not make her more sure of that which
was to come. More loving she grew, as she went away from them,
the touch of her hand more pitiful, her voice more tender, if
such a thing could be,--with a look in her eyes never seen there
before. Old Yare pointed it out to Mrs. Polston one day.
"My girl's far off frum us," he said, sobbing in the
kitchen,--"my girl's far off now."
It was the last night of the year that she died. She was so much
better that they all were quite cheerful. Kitts went away as it
grew dark, and she bade him wrap up his throat with such a
motherly dogmatism that they all laughed at her; she, too, with
the rest.
"I'll make you a New-Year's call," he said, going out; and she
called out that she should be sure to expect him.
She seemed so strong that Holmes and Mrs. Polston and Margret,
who were there, were going home; besides, old Yare said, "I'd
like to take care o' my girl alone to-night, ef yoh'd let
me,"--for they had not trusted him before. But Lois asked them
not to go until the Old Year was over; so they waited
down-stairs.
The old man fell asleep, and it was near midnight when he wakened
with a cold touch on his hand.
"It's come, father!"
He started up with a cry, looking at the new smile in her eyes,
grown strangely still.
"Call them all, quick, father!"
Whatever was the mystery of death that met her now, her heart
clung to the old love that had been true to her so long.
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