k at his eyes now, Helen," she said,
turning the little face towards me, and into a full light.

I started. I had never till that moment seen in them a subtle resemblance
to the eyes of George Ware. We had said that the baby had his mother's
eyes--so he had; but there had always been a likeness between Annie's eyes
and George's though hers were light-blue, and his of a blue so dark that
it was often believed to be black. All the Wares had a very peculiar
luminousness of the eye; it was so marked a family trait that it had
passed into almost proverbial mention, in connection with the
distinguished beauty of the family. "The Ware eye" was always
recognizable, no matter what color it had taken from the admixture of
other blood.

At that moment I saw, and I knew that Annie had seen, that the baby's eyes
were not so much like her own as like the deeper, sadder, darker eyes of
her cousin--brave, hopeless, dear George, who was toiling under the sun of
India, making a fortune for he knew not whom.

We neither of us spoke; presently the little unconscious eyes closed in
sweet sleep, and Annie went on, holding him close to her heart.

"You see, dear, poor mamma will not be able to bear seeing him after I
die. Common mothers would love him for my sake. But mamma is not like
other women. She will come very soon where I am, poor mamma; and then you
will have to take papa home to your house, and papa will have comfort in
little Henry. But he must be your baby, Helen. I shall speak to Edward
about it soon."

She was not strong enough to talk long. She shed no tears, however, and
looked as calm as if she were telling me of pleasant plans for a coming
earthly summer. I also was perfectly calm, and felt strangely free from
sorrow. Her absolute spirituality bore me up. It was as if I spoke with
her in heaven, thousands of centuries after all human perplexities had
passed away.

After this day she grew rapidly weaker. She had no pain. There was not a
single physical symptom in her case which the science of medicine could
name or meet. There was literally nothing to be done for her. Neither
tonic nor stimulant produced the least effect. She was noiselessly sinking
out of life, as very old people sometimes die, without a single jar, or
shock, or struggle. Her beautiful serenity and entire freedom from
suffering blinded Aunt Ann's eyes to the fact that she was dying. This was
a great mercy, and we were all careful not by a word or look