DAWN OF THE MORNING

CHAPTER XXVI

The day before Dawn left New York the city papers officially announced that the cholera had reached the city. Their columns were filled with admonitions, and the symptoms of the disease from start to finish were plainly told. Everybody was ordered to clean up and keep clean.

There seemed to be nothing but cholera news in the paper. A full report was given of every case, and two long columns reported the progress of the disease in other States and cities.

As Dawn passed wearily away from an office where she had spent the entire day waiting for a man who she hoped might use his influence to get her a chance to teach a small school in a country district, but who did not come, she caught the cry of the newsboys.

"New York Commercial-Advertiser! All 'bout the cholera!"

It was not often she spent her hoarded pennies for a paper, but a sudden desire to know the truth about the fearful epidemic seized her. She bought a paper, and turned to the general report column. Almost at once her eye caught the name of a town not far from where her father lived, with a report of three cases of cholera. She read on down the column, and suddenly her heart stood still with horror.

"SLOANSVILLE [she read]. A man who gave his name as Harrington Winthrop died here last week of cholera. He was in an advanced stage of the disease when he arrived in a hired carriage, and died a few hours later. His father and brother were sent for and arrived before his death. This case has caused a panic among the negroes in the vicinity, and there have been a few suspicious cases of illness which are being carefully watched. Everything is being done to prevent a further spread of the disease.

Dawn felt a sudden weakness, and hurried back to her wretched boarding place to lie down. She did not feel like eating any supper, though the old woman prepared some tea and toast and brought it up to her.

Dawn lay panting on her hard little bed, and the hot breath of the night came in at her window, redolent of all the departed dinners of the neighborhood. A stench of garbage sometimes varied the atmosphere as the faint breeze died away, and the noises of a careless, happy-go-lucky community jangled all about her. She thought of the rules of cleanliness that had been laid down in the papers, and of the probability that they would not be carried out in this street. She pictured herself sick with cholera, with no one but the poor old woman to wait upon her, and no doctor. The smells, the awful smells, would be going on and on, and she would be unable to get up and get away from them. She thought of the hot, hot sun that would stream in at her curtainless window when the day broke again, and wondered why she had come to this terrible city, where there was no work, and no place in the world for a lonely pilgrim whom nobody wanted.

Then over her rolled a deep relief at the thought that Harrington Winthrop would trouble her no more, though it seemed awful to rejoice in what must have been a terrible death. Yet it could not but make life freer for her, for she would have one thing less to fear.

Gradually, as she thought about it, another fear seized her. Charles, his brother, her husband, had been with him when he died. Perhaps he too would take it and die, and she would never know, never see him again in this life. She would be left alone—alone in this awful world where she had no friends, and none to love her, save a poor boy to whose kind heart she had brought only pain.

Why not go back to the neighborhood where Charles was? She need not let herself be known. She could surely find some secluded place where she could earn enough to keep her, yet where she might find out how he was, and maybe catch a glimpse of him now and then!

It was strange this idea had not entered her mind before. It had never seemed to her possible that she could go back. But now the spectre of death had made her see things in a different light. She wanted to get back to the greenness and the coolness of the country, and, most of all, she wanted to know if Charles was living and was well. After that, it did not matter what became of her; but now she knew she was going back, and she was going at once—in the morning.

She went down to tell the old lady her purpose, and after that she slept. The next morning she gathered up her few belongings and took the boat for Albany.

She had no settled purpose of where she would go after reaching her objective point. She did not know the name of the town where Charles lived. Strangely enough, it had never been mentioned in her hearing, and she had not thought to ask. She was beginning to feel as if she must have been half asleep when a good many important events in her life happened. Was she half asleep now also, she wondered idly?

As they passed the old school of Friend Ruth, Dawn looked out hungrily and longed inexpressibly to be a girl again, studying her lessons and knowing little of the hardness of life.

When the boat reached Albany she took the first stagecoach that appeared, without asking where it went. Her money was almost gone, but she paid the fare without a pang. What did anything matter, now that she was out of New York?

Everywhere the talk was of the cholera, and her heart grew sick as she heard the details of the dread disease, and long, minute descriptions of how best to nurse it.

The stage-coach reached a pretty village late in the afternoon, and Dawn left it, to take a walk and rest herself from the long sitting.

She had but a few dollars left. Perhaps she ought not to use any more for fare, but stay where she was if she liked it, or walk farther.

She did not feel like eating anything, so she grasped her little bundle of well-worn garments, and walked down the village street.

There was a white church with a wide porch, and stairs in front, leading to the gallery. At the side was the graveyard, its wicket gate shaded by a great weeping willow. Just inside was a seat under the tree. Dawn tried the gate and found it unlatched, and she went in and wandered about among the graves, reading here and there a name idly, and wondering how it would seem to lie down and sleep in that quiet resting place.

Deep in the centre, so far from the street that she could not be seen, she sank in the grass at the foot of a green mound, and laid her face down upon the blossoming myrtle. How nice it would be if this were a great, free inn where strangers might come and lie down, and the servants would bring each one a green blanket for covering, and a white stone at the head of his pillow, and let him sleep in peace and quietness forever. She was so weary, so weary, body and soul.

At last she roused herself, and, looking up at the stone above her, traced the name with startled senses:

MARY MONTGOMERY, Born 1798, Died 1825. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Now, indeed, Dawn was wide awake! This, then, was her mother's grave. She verified the dates with her own memory. She traced the letters tenderly with her fingers, she took in the significance of the quotation, and read her mother's story as she had never been told it by any one. Her mind, made keen by suffering, could understand and sympathize. Her young heart ached with longing for the mother who was gone from her. How might they have comforted each other if they could only have been permitted to stay together!

A little later she moved her position and saw that there was a smaller mound beyond her mother's grave, and that the white stone read:

CARROLL MONTGOMERY VAN RENSSELAER, Aged 2 years and 9 months. He shall gather the lambs in His arms.

Before this stone Dawn knelt in wonder. Had she, then, had a brother? And how much more of the story was there? Oh, if she had only asked her father more questions! Perhaps some day she would dare to go to him and find out many things. Not now—not till she was older and had forgotten some of the troubles she had borne. Poor child! She knew not that his body had been resting beneath a stately monument these ten days past! Beyond her was her grandfather's stone, and beside it her grandmother's, much older and moss-covered. In the same enclosure were many other Montgomerys who had lived and died. Some of their names she thought she remembered. She sighed wearily, and, going back to her mother's grave, touched the letters of her name gently, as if she would bid them farewell, picked a spray of the blossoming myrtle, and went sadly out into a lonely world again. She could not stay here; it was too sorrowful.

She walked to the next village that afternoon, and took another coach, the first that came along, going she knew not where. When she reached the end of the route the next morning, she took up her walk again, resolving to spend no more money for riding. She did not realize how long she had walked, but some time in the afternoon she came into a familiar region. She could not tell where she was at first, but as she drew near to the village she recognized it as her native town.

At first she was frightened, and stopped by the roadside to think what to do. Then a great longing to see the garden once more, and creep into the old summer-house, came over her. Skirting the woods on the outside of the village, and going around by the saw-mill, she at last came to the hedge at the lower end of her father's garden, and slipped through to the summer-house, as she had wished.

The mansion looked quiet. No one seemed moving about. But, then, it had always seemed that way. She had no fear that any one would discover her, for the hedge was thick and tall, and had not been cut lately. She crept into her old corner in the greenness and quiet. The cushions were there as they used to be, but they looked weather-beaten, as if no one had been there in a long time. She brushed them off, spread her mantle upon them, and lay down. It was very still all about, and she soon slept. Some time in the night she awoke with a feeling of chill and loneliness. It was night, she knew by the darkness, and a sense of something strange and sad brooded in the air. But she was very weary, and soon slept again.

When she awoke again it was late morning. She knew by the sun that the day was well begun, and she was impressed almost immediately by the quietness of her surroundings. There seemed to be no one about. Not a sound came from the house. The bees and the cicadas droned and whetted their hot scythes in the burning day, but otherwise there was a torrid silence.

The little hedged summer-house was not far from the street. It seemed strange to the girl that she heard no one passing. She got up and made herself as tidy as the circumstances allowed, and then stole toward the house, keeping within hiding of the hedges. She had no mind to let any one see her, but a strange fascination led her to look again upon her old home.

The shutters were all staring wide, as if forgotten, and the front door stood open, but no one was about. Dawn wondered if the old servants were still there, but no sound came from the direction of the kitchen. She stole nearer, though her judgment warned her to go away if she did not wish to be seen and recognized. A power stronger than she realized seemed drawing her on.

With sudden impulse, she stepped softly up to the front door and peeped in. She had no deep love for this old house, for the memories of her mother there had been dimmed and marred by later happenings; but Dawn had been a wanderer so many months now, that even to look upon a place where she had once had a right to be, was good.

The hall looked much as ever, though there was no hat lying on the polished mahogany table, and a coating of dust showed clearly in the stream of sunshine from the front door. Her father's walking-sticks were not in their accustomed place either. She wondered a little, and then was impressed again by the deep stillness that lay over everything. What could it mean? Was no one about? Surely they had not gone off and left the house alone and the front door wide open!

The curious longing for a sight of something familiar which had brought her thus far drew her on. Cautiously she stepped into the hall and peered into this room and that—the parlor, the library, the dining-room, and back through the servants' quarters into the kitchen. All were empty!

The fire was out, and a heap of ashes lay on the hearth, as if no one had made an attempt to put things to rights for hours. There were unwashed dishes on the kitchen table, and on the bread board, beside the knife, lay half a loaf of bread which had moulded in the warm, moist atmosphere. It was all very strange. What could have happened?

With a growing sense that the house was empty now, Dawn went upstairs, looking first into her own old room and the guest rooms, and coming at last to the door of that which had been her step-mother's. It was closed, and she hesitated to open it. What need had she to go in there, any way? It could profit her nothing. If her step-mother was there, Dawn did not wish to see her. The girl paused an instant, then her soft tread turned back again to go downstairs, but a low sound, like a moan, caught her ear, and something made her turn again and open the door, though cold chills were creeping down her spine, and a frenzy of fear had seized upon her.

There upon the high four-poster bed lay her step-mother, her eyes sunken into deep sockets, her cheeks hollow, her nose thin and pointed, her whole face pinched and blue, with lines of agony in her expression.

Dawn felt her heart leap in fear, but she went forward. There seemed nothing else to do.

The sunken eyes turned toward her dully, and the blue lips uttered a low moan, then, suddenly, the sick woman fixed her gaze upon the girl's face in growing horror, and a livid look came into her face.

"Is that you at last?" she asked in a deep, hoarse voice that sounded strange and unnatural. "Are we both dead?"

A cold perspiration had come out upon the girl, and the awfulness of the situation seemed to be taking her senses away, but she tried to speak coolly, and still the wild beating of her heart.

"Yes, I've come," said Dawn; "but we're not dead. What is the matter? Are you sick? I found the front door open, and no one around."

"They've all gone and left me," moaned the woman, beginning to turn her head with a strange, restless movement from side to side. "They rushed off like frightened cattle. You'll go, too, I suppose, when you know I've got the cholera. Yes, go quick. I don't want to do you any more harm than I have already. Oh!"

The sentence broke in a cry of agony, and the sick woman writhed in terrible contortions, which, passing, left her weak and almost lifeless. The girl's heart was filled with horror, but she took off her bonnet and cape and laid down her bundle.

"No, I'm not going to leave you," she said sadly, almost dully. "I'm not afraid, and, besides, it doesn't matter about me, any way. Have you had the doctor?"

The woman shook her head. The agony was not all passed.

"There wasn't any one to go for him," she murmured weakly, tossing restlessly again. "Oh, I'm so thirsty! Can you get me some water?"

"Where is Father?" asked Dawn, wondering if he too had deserted her.

"Didn't you know he was dead?" asked the sick woman, in that strangely hoarse voice.

"No," said Dawn, shuddering. Everybody seemed to be dying. Would she die, too?

She hurried to the old medicine closet and in a moment returned with the camphor bottle and some lumps of sugar, and administered several drops of camphor. The patient's hands were cold and blue. Dawn tucked her up with blankets warmly.

"You lie still," she said in a business-like tone. "I'll get some hot water bottles for your hands and feet, and then I'll call the doctor."

"It isn't worth while for you to stay here and get the cholera," said the woman plaintively. "I'm not going to get over it. I've known it all night. It was coming on yesterday. I tried to straighten up the house, but I was too dizzy and weak. The servants all went away when they heard me say I didn't feel well. There have been several other cases——"

But Dawn did not hear all her step-mother said, for she had hurried down to get a fire started. It was no easy task for her unaccustomed hands to strike the fire from the tinder-box, and after one or two fruitless efforts she decided to waste no more time, but to run to the neighbor's and borrow a kettle of water, at the same time sending a message for the doctor. She was terribly frightened by her step-mother's appearance, and knew she must be very ill indeed. It seemed as if all possible haste was necessary if she would help to save her life.

Upstairs, the sick woman was tossing and moaning. The sudden appearance of the girl who had been the occasion of so much trouble in her life seemed to make the agony all the greater. She knew that she was face to face with death, and now to have the girl she had injured meet her almost on the threshold of the other world, and minister to her, was double torment. If only she could do something to make amends for the wrong she had done, before she left the world and went to meet her just retribution! Her fevered brain tried to think. What was there she could do?

The girl had come, and would probably take the disease and die. Her husband might never know she was here. No one would find it out until she was dead. If only she—Mrs. Van Rensselaer—had some way of letting Charles Winthrop know that his wife had come home. If she could get up and go out into the street and beg some one to take him a message! But her strength was gone, and the agony might come upon her at any moment. She would have to do it at once, or the girl would return and stop her. Could she try?

All her life she had been a woman of iron will. She had made herself and every one except her husband bend to it. She summoned it now. She would try. She would make one supreme effort to right the great wrong of her life. If in the other world to which she knew she was going in a few short hours there was opportunity to meet the husband she had loved as she had loved nothing else on earth besides herself, she would like to tell him that she had tried—that at the last hour she had tried to make some amends.

With the extraordinary strength which mind sometimes gives to body at times of great necessity, as in cases of soldiers mortally wounded fighting to the end, the woman crawled out of the bed and dragged herself over to the desk. Her eyes were bright with her great purpose and blazed like sunken fires. Her gray, thin hair straggled down upon the collar of the old dressing-gown she had put on when first taken sick. She seized her quill pen and a sheet of paper that lay there, and with cramped, shaking hand wrote, "Dawn is here," and signed her name, "Maria Van Rensselaer." The scrawl was almost unreadable, but she dared not try to write it over. She dared not add another word. Her time was short. Her strength already was failing. She had yet to get the message into some one's hands. Perhaps even now she would fail. She crushed the folds together with her cold fingers, wrote "Charles Winthrop" and the address, and then tottered across the room to the door. She almost fell as she reached the stair-landing. The dizzy, blinding blackness that seemed pressing upon her almost overwhelmed her. She felt the pain and torment surging back, but she fought it off and would not yield. This was her last chance to make amends—her last chance. She said it over to herself as she clung to the banisters and got down the stairs clumsily. If Dawn had been in the house, she must have heard her.

It looked like miles to the front gate as the sick woman came out on the piazza, but somehow she got there—a queer, ghastly figure of death, clinging to the gate-post, with a letter and a purse in her hand.

In the distance she saw a negro approaching. He was scuttling along with a frightened gait, as if he wished to hurry through the street. She felt her strength going. If she could only stand up till he reached her! It seemed to her hours before he came to the gate. She had kept back out of sight, instinctively feeling he would be scared away if he saw her.

"Take that to the post office or God will punish you!" she said, in the deep, hoarse voice the disease had given her, and thrust the letter and the purse upon him.

The negro stopped with a yell of fright, but her words had the desired effect. She had worked upon the superstition of his race. He dared not disobey her command. Taking the letter and the purse in his thumb and finger, that he might not come in contact with them more than was necessary—for a glance at the face of the woman had warned him of her malady—he ran at top speed to the post-office. His eyes rolled with horror as he told of the old woman who had accosted him. He felt as if his days were numbered and he fled the village immediately, not caring where he went so he got away from the haunting memory of the living dead who had given him the letter.

With almost superhuman effort Mrs. Van Rensselaer turned to go back to the house, but the iron will could carry her no further. Her strength was gone. She had accomplished her errand, and had come to the end. She had done her best to make amends for her sin. She sank unconscious by the gateway.

Meantime, Dawn had hurried through the hedge by a short cut to the nearest neighbor's, but failed to get any response to her urgent knock. She went around the house and perceived that it was closed. The family must be away. She flew to the neighbor just below with the same result, and going on farther down the street to four other houses, found no one in sight. At the fifth, some distance from her home, a woman stepped fearfully out of the kitchen door, and agreed to send word to the doctor, but shook her head at the demand for hot water. She could not spare her kettle. She had sickness in the house herself. No, she didn't think Dawn could get any at the next house either. Everybody that could get away had gone since the cholera struck the town. Then the woman went in and shut the door and with new horror Dawn sped back to try her hand again at making the fire.

The necessity was so strongly upon her now that she fairly made that fire burn, and at last had a kettle of hot water to carry upstairs.

Dawn was so intent upon carrying her great steaming kettle up the front stairs without spilling the contents that she failed to hear the wheels of a carriage upon the gravel drive outside. It was not until she had carried the kettle into the bedroom and put it on the hearth and then turned toward the bed that she discovered the bed was empty!

A great horror filled her. Trembling, she knew not why, she quickly glanced into the other rooms on that floor. It seemed almost as if the pestilence had become a living being that could snatch people bodily away from the earth.

She seemed to have no voice with which to call, yet she felt upon her a necessity of great haste. Perhaps her step-mother had gone downstairs in search of her. She hurried down a few steps, then stopped, startled. Someone was coming into the front door, staggering under the heavy burden of an inert, human form. It looked a vivid blot of darkness against the background of the hot summer sunshine outside.

Dawn hurried down, with white face and horrified eyes, and saw that it was the old family doctor, and that he held her step-mother in his arms. A sudden pang of remorse went through her heart that she had been away from the sick one so long, yet how could she have helped it? Was Mrs. Van Rensselaer perhaps trying to find her, or was she seeking aid, and had fallen by the way?

"Oh, why did she get up!" she exclaimed regretfully. "I came just as soon as I could get the water hot!" Then she caught hold of the heavy form of the unconscious woman and helped with all her young strength to lift and drag her up to her room again.

"She might have been out of her head, child," said the doctor kindly, as if in answer to her exclamation. He was searching in his medicine case for a certain bottle as he spoke. His breath was coming in short, quick gasps from the exertion of carrying the sick woman upstairs, and the perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead. His face looked old and haggard, and his voice was that of one who had seen much recent sorrow. He walked rapidly asking a few keen questions and giving brief directions. He nodded approvingly at the kettle of hot water, sent Dawn for one or two articles he needed, then when he had done all he could, and the sick woman was breathing more naturally, he turned and looked at Dawn.

She had told him in a few words how she had found the house when she arrived, and the little she had done. He looked her through with his kind tired eyes, noted the sweet, sad face, the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of the thin cheeks, and shook his head doubtfully.

"You're young for this sort of thing," he said gruffly. "It's a hard case, and her only hope is good nursing. I'm afraid you're not equal to it. You'll break down yourself."

"Oh, no, I'm quite strong," said Dawn, bravely trying to smile.

"Well, I don't know how it can be helped," he mused. "I don't know of a single person I can get to help you. It may be Patience Howe could come if she can get away from the Pettibones. I'll see what I can do. I'll stop and send a line to Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister. She'll likely come down by to-morrow. You know she was here when your father died. Do you think you could get along to-night alone in case I can't get any one? I'll try to get back here before dark if I can and bring some one to stay with you. I haven't had a wink of sleep for forty-eight hours except what I caught on the road. I'll get back as soon as I can."

Dawn assured him she would do her best, though her heart quaked within her at thought of staying alone with the death-like sleeper upon the bed. The doctor gave a few directions and cautions, and hurried away.

The house settled into quiet, and the hours stretched into torturing length. Dawn slipped downstairs to find some food, for she was growing faint with long fasting. But there was nothing in the house fit to eat. The bread was moist and sticky with the damp, warm atmosphere, and she had no heart to cook anything. She had arranged the fire to keep the kettle boiling, for hot water was an essential in the sick-room. Now she caught sight of a basket of eggs and dropped several into the boiling water. These would keep her alive and be easy to eat.

The afternoon was a long agony. She spent most of the time applying hot cloths, and chafing the skin of her step-mother. From time to time the woman would almost waken or moan and toss in her sleep. As the hot, red sun slipped down in the west and the oppressive darkness settled upon the house, Dawn felt more alone than she had ever been in all of her short, troublous life. She lighted a candle and set it on the floor in the hall, as in the room it seemed to trouble the patient. The long, flickering shadows wavered over the floor in ghostly march, and the nurse sat and watched them till it seemed that they were the shadows of all the troubles that had taken their way through her young life.

It was late in the evening when the doctor finally returned, and he was alone. But Dawn was glad to see his kindly face, for she had almost given up hoping for him that night, and it seemed terrible to her to sit there and feel that the death angel was standing at the other side of the bed, perhaps.

But the doctor's eyes brightened a little as he looked at the patient.

"She's holding her own," he murmured. "You've done pretty well, little girl. Just as well as an experienced nurse. If you can keep it up during the night you may save her life. I'm sorry I couldn't get any one to stay with you to-night, but there wasn't a soul who was not already taking care of two or more cases. I'd stay myself, but there are three cases I must save to-night if possible. Keep up the treatment as before, and if she rouses again try this new medicine."

He was gone as quickly as he had come, and she was alone with her charge once more, but a new spark of interest was in her work. He had said she might save her step-mother's life. She wondered dully why she should care when the woman had done her so much harm, but she did care, and the fact gave her peace.

While she thus thought she was aware that the sick woman's eyes had opened and were gazing at her with a strange, deep wonder, as if they would ask: "Are you here yet? Have you stayed alone to nurse me, when I have always hated you, and done you harm?"

Dawn came quickly over to the bed and stood in the path of light that the candle shed from the hall doorway. She took the patient's hands in her own and noticed that they were not so cold as they had been, and she asked gently: "Do you want anything?"

For a moment her step-mother only looked at her, and then her lips stirred as if in an effort to speak, but she uttered only one word, "Forgive?"

Dawn's heart bounded with a sudden, unexpected pleasure, and the tears sprang to her eyes.

"Of course!" she said briskly, "it's all right, but you must lie still and help get well."

A gentler light came into Mrs. Van Rensselaer's anxious eyes. Once more, as if to make sure that she had heard aright, she murmured her question, "Forgive?"

Dawn stooped impulsively and kissed her. Then an actual smile of peace settled into the hard face of die woman on the bed, changing it utterly.

"It's all right," said Dawn again eagerly. "And now, you must take your medicine and not talk any more. You are going to get well. The doctor says so, and you must go to sleep at once."

She administered the new medicine, and with another smile like a tired child the sick woman sank away into a gentle, restful sleep.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day that the doctor returned with Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister, who established herself by the bedside with energy and competence. The doctor, noticing Dawn's wan look and sleep-heavy eyes, ordered her to go to bed at once or there would be two patients instead of one to look after. Mrs. Van Rensselaer he pronounced decidedly better.

Dawn, as she slipped away from the sick room, felt dizzy and faint with weariness. She reflected that she would probably contract the disease herself, and it might come upon her suddenly. She had read of many cases that died almost at once. The thought gave her no alarm. It would be good to go quickly. She went to her own room feeling that she had come almost to the end of things.

Her dress was torn and wet from much working with the hot water and flannels. Her face and hands were blackened with soot from the fire. Tired as she was she must freshen herself a little before going to sleep.

She bathed and dressed in fresh garments that she found hanging in her closet, and put on the little white frock she had worn the day before her marriage, smoothed her hair, and then, taking a pillow and some comfortables from the bed, she went downstairs. The thought had come to her that it would be good to get out to the arbor again. If she were to die, it would be as well there as anywhere.

As she passed down the garden walk, a rose thorn caught her white gown, and in freeing herself she noticed a spray of roses like those Charles had picked for her a year ago. Their fragrance seemed to touch her tired senses like healing balm.

After she had spread her comfortables on the floor of the little summer-house, she stepped back and broke off the spray of roses, and lay down with their cool leaves against her hot cheek. Breathing in their odor, she fell into a deep sleep, in which no dreams came to ruffle her peace.

She had not noticed when she lay down that the long, red rays of the sun were very low. The excitement through which she had lived, the lack of food, the unusual exertion and the sudden release from the necessity of doing anything, made her stupid with weariness. The sun slipped quickly down, and the cool darkness of the garden soothed her. A tiny breeze gave her new life, and she slept as sweetly as the sleeping birds in the trees over her head, while the kind stars looked down and kept watch, and the roses nestled close and spoke of him she loved.

In the village, pestilence stalked abroad and the shadow of death hovered, but in the garden there were quiet and peace and rest. And if the languid winds played a solemn dirge among the pines near the old house, they disturbed her not, safe sheltered among God's flowers with others of his beautiful, dependent creatures.