“Mamma! mamma! hear me, if your soul is still in your breast, as I believe it is; I want to say something that will comfort you:  I want to promise you to take care of your little baby all my days and hers, to divide all I have with her—­to live for her, to die for her if such need comes—­never to leave her if I can help it, or to let any one oppress her.  Do you hear me, Mamma Constance?”

“What are you whispering about, Miriam?” said Mrs. Austin, drawing me away grimly.

“There, did you see her smile?” I asked, as in my childish imagination that sweet expression, that comes with the relaxation of the muscles to some dead faces toward the last of earth, seemed to transfigure hers as with an angel grace.  “Her soul has not gone away yet,” I murmured, “she heard me, she believed me,” and I clasped my hands tightly and sank on my knees beside the coffin, devoutly thanking God for this great consolation.

“Child, child, you are mad,” she said, drawing me suddenly to my feet.  “Come away, Miriam, this is no place for you; I wonder at Dr. Pemberton!  That coffin ought to be closed at once, for decay has set in; and there is no sense in supposing the spirit in the poor, crumbling body, when such signs as these exist,” and she pointed to two blue spots on the throat and chin.

I did not understand her then—­I thought they were bruises received in life—­and wondered what she meant as well as I could conjecture at such a time of bewilderment; but still I resolutely refused to leave my dear one’s side, sobbing passionately when Mr. Lodore came in to take me away at last, in obedience to Dr. Pemberton’s orders.

“Come, Miriam, this will never do,” he said.  “Grief must have its way, but reason must be listened to as well.  You have been ill yourself, and your friends are anxious about you; if your mamma could speak to you, she would ask you to go to your chamber and seek repose.  Nay, more, she would tell you that, for all the thrones of the earth, she would not come back if she could, and forsake her angel estate.”

“Not even to see her baby?” I asked, through my blinding tears.  “O Mr. Lodore, you must be mistaken about that; you are wrong, if you are a preacher, for she told me lately she valued her life chiefly for its sake; and I heard her praying one night to be spared to raise it up to womanhood.—­Mamma! mamma! you would come back to us I know, if God would let you, but you cannot, you cannot; He is so strong, so cruel! and He holds you fast.”  And I sobbed afresh, covering up my face.

“Miriam, what words are these?—­Mr. Monfort, I am pleased that you have come.  It is best for your little daughter to retire; she is greatly moved and excited;” and, yielding to my father’s guidance and persuasion, I went passively from the presence of the dead, into which came, a moment later, the hushed crowd of her church-people and our few private friends, assembled to witness her obsequies.