She never looked at any one with
the slightest glimpse of memory or intelligence in her face; no,
not even Leonard.
Her strength faded day by day; but she knew it not. Her sweet
lips were parted to sing, even after the breath and the power to
do so had left her, and her fingers fell idly on the bed. Two
days she lingered thus--all but gone from them, and yet still
there.
They stood around her bedside, not speaking, or sighing, or
moaning; they were too much awed by the exquisite peacefulness of
her look for that. Suddenly she opened wide her eyes, and gazed
intently forwards, as if she saw some happy vision, which called
out a lovely, rapturous, breathless smile. They held their very
breaths.
"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.
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