CHAPTER LIV.

MRS. LEE'S FUNERAL.

As I sat buried in miserable thoughts, a faint stir in the bed draperies made me start and hold my breath. It was Lottie, who had been all the time crouching close to the floor, guarding the remains of her mistress in profound stillness. The light was so dim that I had not been aware of her presence till then. Such companionship did not disturb me; indeed, without the faithful girl that death-chamber would have been desolate indeed.

"Lottie," I said, in a whisper,--"Lottie, is it you?"

She was sitting on the floor, with both arms locked around her knees, on which her forehead rested. The girl looked up, and her heavy eyes met mine.

"Yes, it's me, Miss Hyde; I haven't left her a minute since then," she said, drearily. "Don't ask me to go away--I couldn't do it."

"Ask you to go away, Lottie? Oh! no, my poor girl! We have watched together in this room many a time; but never in this sad way."

"I know it," she said; "you were always good to her, and she felt it. But tell me, Miss Hyde, do you think it was the letter I brought that laid her there?"

"I cannot tell. Still it must have been, she was so well only a moment before it touched her hand. Who could have written it?"

"I have been thinking and thinking, Miss Hyde. The writing was like Miss Jessie's; I thought so at the time."

"Miss Jessie's? Are you sure?"

"So it seemed to me; but I've got the envelope, look for yourself."

I took the crumpled envelope which she took from her bosom and held toward me. It was of creamy-white paper, very thick, and with an inner lining of blue, a color that Jessie affected where it could be delicately introduced among her stationery. The writing was like hers, but with a slight appearance of disguise.

"You see," said Lottie, still in a whisper, "it looks like Miss Jessie's; but what could she write to _her_ about?"

"It is strange," I murmured.

"Terribly strange! I can't make it out. All the time, for two whole nights and days, I have thought of it; and the more I think the darker it all grows. Oh, if she could only speak; but that will never be again--"

Her voice broke here, and clasping her knees tighter, she began rocking to and fro, uttering faint, dry moans, that went to my heart. Lottie had not shed a tear since her mistress's death.

"Never again--never again!" she kept whispering.

"Don't Lottie," I said; "it breaks my heart to hear you go on in this way."

She looked at me earnestly; then dropped her face and said, with infinite pathos,--

"Oh! that _my_ heart could break!"

I bent over her.

"Be comforted, Lottie. If our friend could speak, this is what she would say--"

"Don't, don't. Who could be comforted, and she lying there like a beautiful lily broken off at the stem? Look at her, Miss Hyde, and see if the smile is there yet."

"Yes, Lottie, there is a heavenly look on her face. See for yourself."

"No, no, I cannot stand it; in the morning I will kiss her hands for the last time. Let her sleep with the angels to-night; I won't come between her and them. They will take care of her now she don't want me."

"Oh, Lottie!"

She shook her head disconsolately, then it sunk on her knees once more, and was not lifted again all night; still I do not think she slept a moment.

Jessie came to her mother's room late that night. Lottie did not move; I arose to go, knowing how sacred were the rights of an only child; but she asked me to stay, saying--oh, how sadly--that her mother's true friend could not be in the way even there.

I told her that Lottie was watching, and had not once left her place by the bed. She went round to where the girl was crouching and kissed that portion of the forehead left exposed by the folded arms. Then, for the first time, I heard low sobs break from the faithful creature, and felt glad to know that she was crying.

"She is happier far than I am," said Jessie, with unutterable sadness. "It seems as if I should never shed tears again."

She came back to where I was sitting, and sinking on the footstool that always stood near the chair, her head fell on my lap, her hands clasped themselves under the pale forehead, and thus she lay, heavy and still, weary with pain, but sleepless, till the day dawned.

That morning Mrs. Lee was to be buried.

With the first gray of dawn, we heard Mr. Lee's step coming up from the library below, where he had passed the night. Jessie and I arose, and, bending over that calm face, left our solemn kisses on the lips and went away, giving her up to the man she had loved so devotedly. Even Lottie was aroused by his approach, and, rising to her feet, went heavily into her own little room, which was soon filled with bitter sobs.

We met Mr. Lee on the stairs. He had not been in bed that night and looked strangely haggard. No words passed among us; but Jessie and her father exchanged a mournful glance that was more eloquent than language.

It rained when we took her away from her home, and a heavy gloom lay upon the beautiful landscape she had loved so well. Across the terrace, and down the flight of steps bordered with flowers that wept heavy drops, she passed away into the valley--away to her eternal rest. On a rise of ground on the verge of the hills, we paused amid a cluster of white stones where sods lay in a heap, and the torn earth contrasted mournfully with the fresh grass.

As we neared the hill, a burst of sunshine broke the clouds asunder and lighted us forward. There were no sobs at the grave; our sorrow was very silent, and solemn as death itself. The very air seemed thrilled with awe as the funeral service rose upon it. Some one, Lottie I suppose, had laid a garland of white flowers on the coffin, knotted together with snowy ribbons. As they lowered the coffin the wind took these ribbons, and they fluttered up from the grave like the wings of an angel striving to rise heavenward; and through the first shovelful of earth rose a faint perfume pressed from the flowers which the gravel had bruised upon her coffin.

It was all over, and we returned to the house. On the steps, Mrs. Dennison stood to receive us clothed in white, with black ribbons knotting up the sleeves and clustering at the bosom of her dress. This was the first time I had seen her since that fatal day.

Nothing could have been more decorous than her demeanor; her beautiful eyes seemed heavy with unshed tears, and Christianity itself is not more gentle than her tone and manner.

"Come," she said, addressing our Jessie, "let us mourn together as friends who have lost one who is dearest to us. If I have ever pained you, dear Jessie, forgive me for her sake."

Mr. Lee heard this, and looked wistfully at his daughter. Poor girl! she was too heart-broken for resentment, and held forth her hand. Mr. Lee stepped forward and laid his hand on those that the beautiful woman had just clasped.

"Jessie," he said, in a voice that thrilled all within its influence, "remember this lady was very dear to your mother."

Jessie did not answer; I think she could not command words, but she bent her head in acquiescence and passed into the house.

It is a strange thing to say, but I believe that the few weeks that followed Mrs. Lee's funeral were the most tranquil of any that had preceded them since Mrs. Dennison came to our house. The great central object of interest in the household was at rest. All the little cares that had occupied us were over; the very altar of our household had been torn away, and for a long time we found it impossible to find new channels of interest, or settle ourselves down to anything. There was no longer an attempt at amusing our guest, and she did not seem to require it; indeed, from all appearances she had become a member of the family. We seldom met now, but kept our own rooms. Jessie became sadder and sadder each day; nothing interested her; she absolutely pined to follow her mother.