“I see the Light coming,” said she.  “The Light is coming,” she said.  And, raising herself slowly, she stretched out her arms, and then fell back, very still for evermore.

They did not speak.  Mr. Davis was the first to utter a word.

“It is over!” said he.  “She is dead!”

Out rang through the room the cry of Leonard—­

“Mother! mother! mother!  You have not left me alone!  You will not leave me alone!  You are not dead!  Mother!  Mother!”

They had pent in his agony of apprehension till then, that no wail of her child might disturb her ineffable calm.  But now there was a cry heard through the house, of one refusing to be comforted:  “Mother!  Mother!”

But Ruth lay dead.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE END

A stupor of grief succeeded to Leonard’s passionate cries.  He became so much depressed, physically as well as mentally, before the end of the day, that Mr. Davis was seriously alarmed for the consequences.  He hailed with gladness a proposal made by the Farquhars, that the boy should be removed to their house, and placed under the fond care of his mother’s friend, who sent her own child to Abermouth the better to devote herself to Leonard.

When they told him of this arrangement, he at first refused to go and leave her:  but when Mr. Benson said—­

“She would have wished it, Leonard!  Do it for her sake!” he went away very quietly; not speaking a word, after Mr. Benson had made the voluntary promise that he should see her once again.  He neither spoke nor cried for many hours; and all Jemima’s delicate wiles were called forth, before his heavy heart could find the relief of tears.  And then he was so weak, and his pulse so low, that all who loved him feared for his life.

Anxiety about him made a sad distraction from the sorrow for the dead.  The three old people, who now formed the household in the Chapel-house, went about slowly and dreamily, each with a dull wonder at their hearts why they, the infirm and worn-out, were left, while she was taken in her lovely prime.

The third day after Ruth’s death, a gentleman came to the door and asked to speak to Mr. Benson.  He was very much wrapped up in furs and cloaks, and the upper, exposed part of his face was sunk and hollow, like that of one but partially recovered from illness.  Mr. and Miss Benson were at Mr. Farquhar’s, gone to see Leonard, and poor old Sally had been having a hearty cry over the kitchen fire before answering the door-knock.  Her heart was tenderly inclined, just then, towards any one who had the aspect of suffering:  so, although her master was out, and she was usually chary of admitting strangers, she proposed to Mr. Donne (for it was he), that he should come in and await Mr. Benson’s return in the study.  He was glad enough to avail himself of her offer; for he was feeble and nervous, and come on a piece of business which