“She is faint,” said Helen, doubtfully; “bring me the hartshorn, Sophy.”

The old woman had started from her place, and was now leaning over her, looking in her face, and listening for the sound of her breathing.

“She ’s dead!  Elsie ’s dead!  My darlin ’s dead!” she cried aloud, filling the room with her utterance of anguish.

Dudley Venner drew her away and silenced her with a voice of authority, while Helen and an assistant plied their restoratives.  It was all in vain.

The solemn tidings passed from the chamber of death through the family.  The daughter, the hope of that old and honored house, was dead in the freshness of her youth, and the home of its solitary representative was hereafter doubly desolate.

A messenger rode hastily out of the avenue.  A little after this the people of the village and the outlying farm-houses were startled by the sound of a bell.

One,—­two,—­three,—­four,

They stopped in every house, as far as the wavering vibrations reached, and listened—­

five,—­six,—­seven,—­

It was not the little child which had been lying so long at the point of death; that could not be more than three or four years old—­

eight,—­nine,—­ten,—­and so on to fifteen, sixteen,—­seventeen, —­eighteen—­

The pulsations seemed to keep on,—­but it was the brain, and not the bell, that was throbbing now.

“Elsie ’s dead!” was the exclamation at a hundred firesides.

“Eighteen year old,” said old Widow Peake, rising from her chair.  “Eighteen year ago I laid two gold eagles on her mother’s eyes,—­he wouldn’t have anything but gold touch her eyelids,—­and now Elsie’s to be straightened,—­the Lord have mercy on her poor sinful soul!”

Dudley Venner prayed that night that he might be forgiven, if he had failed in any act of duty or kindness to this unfortunate child of his, now freed from all the woes born with her and so long poisoning her soul.  He thanked God for the brief interval of peace which had been granted her, for the sweet communion they had enjoyed in these last days, and for the hope of meeting her with that other lost friend in a better world.

Helen mingled a few broken thanks and petitions with her tears:  thanks that she had been permitted to share the last days and hours of this poor sister in sorrow; petitions that the grief of bereavement might be lightened to the lonely parent and the faithful old servant.

Old Sophy said almost nothing, but sat day and night by her dead darling.  But sometimes her anguish would find an outlet in strange sounds, something between a cry and a musical note,—­such as noise had ever heard her utter before.  These were old remembrances surging up from her childish days, coming through her mother from the cannibal chief, her grandfather,—­death-wails, such as they sing in the mountains of Western Africa, when they see the fires on distant hill-sides and know that their own wives and children are undergoing the fate of captives.