But oh, my dear! the
bitter, bitter crying she had when she was alone; and at last, as
she grew weaker, she could not keep her tears in when Deborah or me
was by, and would give us message after message for Peter (his ship
had gone to the Mediterranean, or somewhere down there, and then he
was ordered off to India, and there was no overland route then);
but she still said that no one knew where their death lay in wait,
and that we were not to think hers was near. We did not think it,
but we knew it, as we saw her fading away.
"Well, my dear, it's very foolish of me, I know, when in all
likelihood I am so near seeing her again.
"And only think, love! the very day after her death--for she did
not live quite a twelvemonth after Peter went away--the very day
after--came a parcel for her from India--from her poor boy. It was
a large, soft, white Indian shawl, with just a little narrow border
all round; just what my mother would have liked.
"We thought it might rouse my father, for he had sat with her hand
in his all night long; so Deborah took it in to him, and Peter's
letter to her, and all. At first, he took no notice; and we tried
to make a kind of light careless talk about the shawl, opening it
out and admiring it. Then, suddenly, he got up, and spoke: 'She
shall be buried in it,' he said; 'Peter shall have that comfort;
and she would have liked it.
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