did not understand the reason, at first; she did not want to die: yet
if it hurt her, when it grew clear at last, no one knew it; it was not
her way to speak of pain. Only, as she grew weaker, day by day, she
began to set her house in order, as one might say, in a quaint, almost
comical fashion, giving away everything she owned, down to her
treasures of colored bottles and needle-books, mending her father's
clothes, and laying them out in her drawers; lastly, she had Barney
brought in from the country, and every day would creep to the window to
see him fed and chirrup to him, whereat the poor old beast would look
up with his dim eye, and try to neigh a feeble answer. Kitts used to
come every day to see her, though he never said much when he was there:
he lugged his great copy of the Venus del Pardo along with him one day,
and left it, thinking she would like to look at it; Knowles called it
trash, when he came. The Doctor came always in the morning; he told
her he would read to her one day, and did it always afterwards, putting
on his horn spectacles, and holding her old Bible close up to his
rugged, anxious face. He used to read most from the Gospel of St.
John. She liked better to hear him than any of the others, even than
Margret, whose voice was so low and tender: something in the man's
half-savage nature was akin to the child's.

As the day drew near when she was to go, every pleasant trifle seemed
to gather a deeper, solemn meaning. Jenny Balls came in one night, and
old Mrs. Polston.

"We thought you'd like to see her weddin'-dress, Lois," said the old
woman, taking off Jenny's cloak, "seein' as the weddin' was to hev been
to-morrow, and was put off on 'count of you."

Lois did like to see it; sat up, her face quite flushed to see how
nicely it fitted, and stroked back Jenny's soft hair under the veil.
And Jenny, being a warm-hearted little thing, broke into a sobbing fit,
saying that it spoiled it all to have Lois gone.

"Don't muss your veil, child," said Mrs. Polston.

But Jenny cried on, hiding her face in Lois's skinny hand, until Sam
Polston came in, when she grew quiet and shy. The poor deformed girl
lay watching them, as they talked. Very pretty Jenny looked, with her
blue eyes and damp pink cheeks; and it was a manly, grave love in Sam's
face, when it turned to her. A different love from any she had known:
better, she thought. It could not be helped; but it WAS better.

After they were