re, wistful, holy, at rest--blessed and above
reproach. Her heart went out to her as to one standing near, hidden by
the long white curtains--nearer than Aunt Chris asleep upstairs, nearer
than Bernard, who was coming to her, nearer than the great form on the
bed. Closer than all other things was that spiritual presence. Then she
thought of her old negro mammy, who had died when she was but a
baby--her mother's nurse and hers. She recalled the beloved black face
beneath the snowy handkerchief, the restful bosom in blue homespun, the
tireless arms that had rocked her into slumber. Then of Jim, the dog,
true friend and faithful playmate. All the lives that she had loved and
had been bereft of gathered closer, closer in the gray shadows.

Her gaze passed to the window, seeking in the sad landscape the little
graveyard where they were lying. The rain came between her and the
clouded hill--descending softly and insistently between her eyes and the
end of her search. Against the panes the dripping branches of the
shivering mimosa tree beat themselves and moaned. A chill seized her
and, rising, she went to the hearth, noiselessly piling wood upon the
charred and waning logs, which crumbled and sent up a thin flame. She
hurried to the bed and sat down again, her eyes on the blanket that rose
and fell with the difficult breath. As she looked at the large, familiar
face, tracing its puffed outline and gross colouring, it resolved itself
into her earliest remembrance--throughout her childhood he had been her
slave and she his tyrant. What wish of hers had he ever ignored? With
what demand had he ever failed to comply? At the end of the long life
what had remained to him except herself--the single compensation--the
one reward? The pity of it smote her as with a lash. He had lived with
such fine bravery, and he had had so little--so little, and yet more
than myriads of the men that live and die. That live and die! About her
and beyond her she seemed to hear the rushing of great multitudes--the
passing of the countless souls through the gates of death.

With a cry she threw herself upon her knees, beseeching the dull ears.

* * * * *

Six hours later he died, and when the rain ceased and the sun came out
they buried him beside his wife in the little graveyard. For days after
the funeral Eugenia wandered like a shadow through the still rooms.
Bernard had come and gone, carrying with him his short, shar