“My dear son! —­ she has gone! —­”

Winthrop took the hand in his and gave it a moment’s pressure, and then saying very gently but in a way that was obeyed, “Be quiet Karen,” —­ he passed her and stood at his mother’s bedside.

She was there —­ lying quietly in her last sleep.  Herself and not another.  All of her that could write and leave its character on features of clay, was shewn there still —­ in its beauty.  The brow yet spoke the calm good sense which had always reigned beneath it; the lines of toil were on the cheek; the mouth had its old mingling of patience and hope and firm dignity —­ the dignity of meek assurance which looked both to the present and the future.  It was there now, unchanged, unlessened; Winthrop read it; that as she had lived, so she had died, in sure expectation of ‘the rest that remaineth.’  Herself and no other! —­ ay! that came home too in another sense, with its hard stern reality, pressing home upon the heart and brain, till it would have seemed that nature could not bear it and must give way.  But it did not.  Winthrop stood and looked, fixedly and long, so fixedly that no one cared to interrupt him, but so calmly in his deep gravity that the standers-by were rather awed than distressed.  And at last when he turned away and Asahel threw himself forward upon his neck, Winthrop’s manner was as firm as it was kind; though he left them all then and forbade Asahel to follow him.

“The Lord bless him!” said Karen, loosing her tongue then and giving her tears leave at the same time.  “And surely the Lord has blessed him, or he wouldn’t ha’ borne up so.  She won’t lose that one of her childr’n —­ she won’t, no she won’t! —­ I know she won’t! —­”

“Where is Winnie, Karen?” said Asahel suddenly.

“Poor soul! —­ I dun know,” said Karen; —­ “she was afeard to see the Governor come home, and dursn’t stop nowheres —­ I dun know where she’s hid. —­ The Lord bless him! nobody needn’t ha’ feared him.  He’s her own boy —­ aint he her own boy! —­”

Asahel went out to seek for his little sister, but his search was in vain.  She was not to be seen nor heard of.  Neither did Winthrop come to the sorrowful gathering which the remnant of the family made round the supper-table. In the house he was not; and wherever he was out of the house, he was beyond reach.

“Could they have gone away together?” said Asahel.

“No!” said his father.

“They didn’t,” said Clam.  “I see him go off by himself.”

“Which way?”

“Off among the trees,” said Clam.

“Which way?” said Mr. Landholm.

“His back was to the house, and he was goin’ off towards the river some place —­ I guess he didn’t want no one to foller him.”

“There aint no wet nor cold to hurt him,” said Karen.

There was not; but they missed him.

And the house had been quiet, very quiet, for long after supper-time, when softly and cautiously one of the missing ones opened the door of the east-room and half came in.  Only Karen sat there at the foot of the bed.  Winnie came in and came up to her.