How long we stood thus, I know
not; the last sun-rays were dying as Aunt Hildy said: "We must wait no
longer; Jane and Aunt Peg, you'll help me, the rest of you need'nt
stay;" and so we left our beautiful dead, still in the hands of her
friends.
The day of her burial was a perfect one--calm in its beauty, the blue of
its skies like the eyes of our darling. The little pillow made by her
own hands was of blue, covered with a fine web of wrought lace, and with
edging that had also been her handiwork. We dressed her as she
desired,--in a plain dress of pale blue,--the violet blossoms she loved
were in her hand, and it seemed to me as if I could never see her laid
out of sight--she was so beautiful in this last sleep; she looked not
more than thirty; there were no gray hairs among the brown, and no lines
of care or sorrow marked her sweet, pure face.
All things were as she desired, and when the sun burned low on the
hills, we laid her under the willow, while the children sang "Sweet
Rest."
"Will there ever be another like her?" I said.
"Never," said Aunt Hildy.
"No, never," said the hearts of all.
My father missed her as much as if she had been his daughter, and I was
glad of little Emily's presence; it was a star in our night. Louis was
calm and strong, and spoke of her daily, and insisted on her plate at
the table, saying:
"I cannot call her dead. Let us keep a place for her."
It was a tender recognition which we respected.
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