“Oh, Graydon, what a sigh!” Madge exclaimed.  “Is your regret so great?  You were indeed thinking very deeply.”

“So were you, Madge—­so you have been during the last half hour.  My sigh was one of boundless relief and gratitude.  If you will permit me, I will tell you the thoughts that occasioned it as a proof of my friendly confidence.  May I tell you?”

“Yes, if you think it right,” she said, with slightly heightened color.

“It seems to me both right and natural that I should tell you;” and he put the thoughts which preceded his sigh into words.

“Yes,” she replied, gravely; “I think you have escaped much that you would regret.  Please don’t talk about it any more.”

“What were you thinking about, Madge?” he asked, looking into her flushed and lovely face.

“I have thought a great deal about Tilly and what passed between us.  That is the house there, and it will always remain in my mind as a distinct memory.”

Farm wagons and vehicles of all descriptions were gathering at the dwelling.  They were driven by men with faces as rugged and weather-beaten as the mountains around them.  By their sides were plain-featured matrons, whose rustic beauty had early faded under the stress of life’s toil, and apple-cheeked boys and girls, with faces composed into the most unnatural and portentous gravity.  There was a sprinkling of young men, with visages so burned by the sun that they might pass for civilized Indians.  They were accompanied by young women who, in their remote rural homes, had obtained hints from the world of fashion, and after the manner of American girls had arrayed themselves with a neatness and taste that was surprising; and the fresh pink and white of their complexions made a pleasing contrast with their swains.  Although the occasion was one of solemnity, it was not without its pleasurable excitement.  They all knew about poor Tilly, and to-day was the culmination of the little drama of her illness, the details of which had been discussed for weeks among the neighbors—­not in callous curiosity, but with that strange blending of gossip and sympathy which is found in rural districts.  The conclusion of all such talk had been a sigh and the words, “She is prepared to go.”

The people as yet were gathered without the door and in groups under the trees.  Tilly’s remains were still in her own little room, Mrs. Wendall taking her farewell look with hollow, tearless eyes.  A few favored ones, chiefly the watchers who had aided the stricken mother, were admitted to this retreat of sorrow.

When Dr. Sommers saw Madge and Graydon he came to them and said, “Mrs. Wendall requested that when you came you and whoever accompanied you should be brought to her.  Tilly, before she died, expressed the wish that you should sit with her mother during the funeral.  No, no, Mr. Muir, Mrs. Wendall would have no objection to any of Miss Alden’s friends.  I can give you a seat here by this window.  The other rooms will be very crowded with those who are strangers to you.”