there--she supposed he had gone. (Basil knew, by Verena, apart
from this, that his name had not been mentioned to the old lady since
the morning he saw her.) She expressed a wish to see him--she had
something to say to him; and Miss Chancellor told her that he would be
back soon, with Verena, and that they would bring him in. Miss Birdseye
said she hoped they wouldn't be long, because she was sinking; and
Doctor Prance now added, like a person who knew what she was talking
about, that it was, in fact, the end. She had darted out two or three
times to look for them, and they must step right in. Verena had scarcely
given her time to tell her story; she had already rushed into the house.
Ransom followed with Doctor Prance, conscious that for him the occasion
was doubly solemn; inasmuch as if he was to see poor Miss Birdseye yield
up her philanthropic soul, he was on the other hand doubtless to receive
from Miss Chancellor a reminder that _she_ had no intention of quitting
the game.

By the time he had made this reflexion he stood in the presence of his
kinswoman and her venerable guest, who was sitting just as he had seen
her before, muffled and bonneted, on the back piazza of the cottage.
Olive Chancellor was on one side of her holding one of her hands, and on
the other was Verena, who had dropped on her knees, close to her,
bending over those of the old lady. "Did you ask for me--did you want
me?" the girl said tenderly. "I will never leave you again."

"Oh, I won't keep you long. I only wanted to see you once more." Miss
Birdseye's voice was very low, like that of a person breathing with
difficulty; but it had no painful nor querulous note--it expressed only
the cheerful weariness which had marked all this last period of her
life, and which seemed to make it now as blissful as it was suitable
that she should pass away. Her head was thrown back against the top of
the chair, the ribbon which confined her ancient hat hung loose, and the
late afternoon light covered her octogenarian face and gave it a kind of
fairness, a double placidity. There was, to Ransom, something almost
august in the trustful renunciation of her countenance; something in it
seemed to say that she had been ready long before, but as the time was
not ripe she had waited, with her usual faith that all was for the best;
only, at present, since the right conditions met, she couldn't help
feeling that it was quite a luxury, the greatest she had ever tasted