and in its parching, withering
clasp, our unstained lily fades. We take her back to Tempest at her
wish, and there she dies--yes, _dies_.

Somehow, I never thought of Barbara dying. Often I have been nervous
about the boys; out in the world, exposed to a hundred dangers and rough
accidents, but about Barbara--_never_, hardly more than about myself,
safely at home, scarcely within reach of any probable peril. And now the
boys are all alive and safe, and Barbara is going. One would think that
she had cared nothing for us, she is in such a hurry to be gone; and yet
we all know that she has loved us well--that she loves us still--none
better.

Alas! we have no long and tedious nursing of her. She has never given
any trouble in her life, and she gives none now. Almost before we
realize the reality and severity of her sickness, she is gone. Neither
does she make any struggle. She never was one to strive or cry; never
loud, clamorous, and self-asserting, like the boys and me; she was
always most meek, and with a great meekness she now goes forth from
among us--meekness and yet valor, for with a full and collected
consciousness she looks in the face of Him from whom the nations
shuddering turn away their eyes, and puts her slight hand gently into
his, saying, "Friend, I am ready!"

And the days roll by; _but_ few, _but_ few of them, for, as I tell you,
she goes most quickly, and it comes to pass that our Barbara's death-day
dawns. Most people go in the morning. God grant that it is a good omen,
that for them, indeed, the sun is rising!

We are all round her--all we that loved her and yet so lightly--for
every trivial thing called upon her, and taxed her, and claimed this and
that of her, as if she were some certain common thing that we should
always have within our reach. Yes, we are all about her, kneeling and
standing in a hallowed silence, choking back our tears that they may not
stain the serenity of her departure.

Musgrave is nearest her; her hand is clasped in his; even at this sacred
and supreme moment a pang of most bitter earthly jealousy contracts my
heart that it should be so. What is he to her? what has he to do with
our Barbara?--_ours, not his, not his!_ But it pleases her.

_She_ has never doubted him. Never has the faintest suspicion of his
truth dimmed the mirror of her guileless mind, nor will it ever now. She
goes down to the grave smiling, holding his hand, and kissing it. Now
and then she wanders a