utside Ralph's door she
stopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that
filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were
lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting
motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his
hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's
further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were
at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but
the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand
in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very
hard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had
come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there
was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years
before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt
and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing
neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this
one, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed;
her acute white face was terrible.

"Dear Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured.

"Go and thank God you've no child," said Mrs. Touchett, disengaging
herself.

Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the
height of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a quiet
station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which
stood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this
edifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself
at the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton
himself had not a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs.
Touchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one;
there was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. The weather
had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherous
May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the
hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it
was not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had been
dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected and
prepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears
that blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the
splendour of nature, the sweetness of the old