en--" he pointed to the little crib.

"As you say." And so it dropped.

There came a day when Hartington, sitting upon the portico, where
perfumes of the budding clover came to him, hated the humming of the
happy bees, hated the rustling of the trees, hated the sight of earth.

"The child is dead," the nurse had said, "as for your wife, perhaps--"
but that was all. Finally he heard the nurse's step upon the floor.

"Come," she said, motioning him. And he had gone, laid cheek against
that dying cheek, whispered his love once more, saw it returned even
then, in those deep eyes, and laid her back upon her pillow, dead.

He buried her among the mignonette, levelled the earth, sowed thick the
seed again.

"'Tis as she wished," he said.

With his strong hands he wrenched the little crib, laid it piece by
piece upon their hearth, and scattered then the sacred ashes on the
wind. Then, with hard-coming breath, broke open the locked door of that
room which he had never entered, thinking to find there, perhaps, some
sign of that unguessable life of hers, but found there only an altar,
with votive lamps before the Blessed Virgin, and lilies faded and fallen
from their stems.

Then down into the cellar went he, to those boxes, with the foreign
marks. And then, indeed, he found a hint of that dead life. Gowns of
velvet and of silk, such as princesses might wear, wonders of lace,
yellowed with time, great cloaks of snowy fur, lustrous robes, jewels
of worth,--a vast array of brilliant trumpery. Then there were books in
many tongues, with rich old bindings and illuminated page, and in them
written the dead woman's name,--a name of many parts, with titles of
impress, and in the midst of all the name, "Elizabeth Astrado," as she
said.

And that was all, or if there were more he might have learned, following
trails that fell within his way, he never learned it, being content, and
thankful that he had held her for a time within his arms, and looked
in her great soul, which, wearying of life's sad complexities, had
simplified itself, and made his love its best adornment.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Mountain Woman and Others, by
(AKA Elia Wilkinson) Elia W. Peattie

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MOUNTAIN WOMAN AND OTHERS ***

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