Christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing that conquered the mortal weakness of the body, the heart sent forth one tender cry: 

“My mother—­I want my mother!”

There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as it left her lips, she saw her mother’s face bending over her, and felt her mother’s arms gathering her in an embrace which held her close even after death had set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between those reunited hearts.

When she was asleep at last, Christie and her mother made her ready for her grave; weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white garment she had put by for that sad hour; and on her breast they laid the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift.  So beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new year had happily begun.

“Now my work here is done, and I must go,” thought Christie, when the waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone down.  But she found that one more task remained for her before she left the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy.

Mrs. Carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal her secret cross, broke down entirely under this last blow, and besought Christie to tell Bella all that she must know.  It was a hard task, but Christie accepted it, and, when the time came, found that there was very little to be told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, the younger had learned much of the sad truth.  Thus prepared, she listened to all that was most carefully and tenderly confided to her, and, when the heavy tale was done, she surprised Christie by the unsuspected strength she showed.  No tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother’s daughter, and inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens, if they are borne unseen.

“Tell me what I must do, and I will do it,” she said, with the quiet despair of one who submits to the inevitable, but will not complain.

When Christie with difficulty told her that she should give up her lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak, then lifted it as if defying her own weakness, and spoke out bravely: 

“It shall be done, for it is right.  It is very hard for me, because I love him; he will not suffer much, for he can love again.  I should be glad of that, and I’ll try to wish it for his sake.  He is young, and if, as Harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much the better.  What next, Christie?”

Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature she had fancied a sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow, Christie took heart, and, instead of soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best fitted for strong natures, something to do for others.  What inspired her, Christie never knew; perhaps it was the year of self-denying service she had rendered for pity’s sake; such devotion is its own reward, and now, in herself, she discovered unsuspected powers.