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little—but he went away. Do you think I did right, Valancy?”
“Yes, I do. _You_ did right. But he——”
“Don’t blame him, dear. Please don’t. Let’s not talk about him at all.
There’s no need. I wanted to tell you how it was—I didn’t want you to
think me bad——”
“I never did think so.”
“Yes, I felt that—whenever you came. Oh, Valancy, what you’ve been to
me! I can never tell you—but God will bless you for it. I know He
will—‘with what measure ye mete.’”
Cissy sobbed for a few minutes in Valancy’s arms. Then she wiped her
eyes.
“Well, that’s almost all. I came home. I wasn’t really so very unhappy.
I suppose I should have been—but I wasn’t. Father wasn’t hard on me.
And my baby was so sweet while he lived. I was even happy—I loved him
so much, the dear little thing. He was so sweet, Valancy—with such
lovely blue eyes—and little rings of pale gold hair like silk floss—and
tiny dimpled hands. I used to bite his satin-smooth little face all
over—softly, so as not to hurt him, you know——”
“I know,” said Valancy, wincing. “I know—a woman _always_ knows—and
dreams——”
“And he was _all_ mine. Nobody else had any claim on him. When he died,
oh, Valancy, I thought I must die too—I didn’t see how anybody could
endure such anguish and live. To see his dear little eyes and know he
would never open them again—to miss his warm little body nestled
against mine at night and think of him sleeping alone and cold, his wee
face under the hard frozen earth. It was so awful for the first
year—after that it was a little easier, one didn’t keep thinking ‘this
day last year’—but I was so glad when I found out I was dying.”
“‘Who could endure life if it were not for the hope of death?’”
murmured Valancy softly—it was of course a quotation from some book of
John Foster’s.
“I’m glad I’ve told you all about it,” sighed Cissy. “I wanted you to
know.”
Cissy died a few nights after that. Roaring Abel was away. When Valancy
saw the change that had come over Cissy’s face she wanted to telephone
for the doctor. But Cissy wouldn’t let her.
“Valancy, why should you? He can do nothing for me. I’ve known for
several days that—this—was near. Let me die in peace, dear—just holding
your hand. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Tell Father good-bye for me.
He’s always been as good to me as he knew how—and Barney. Somehow, I
think that Barney——”
But a spasm of coughing interrupted and exhausted her. She fell asleep
when it was over, still holding to Valancy’s hand. Valancy sat there in
the silence. She was not frightened—or even sorry. At sunrise Cissy
died. She opened her eyes and looked past Valancy at
something—something that made her smile suddenly and happily. And,
smiling, she died.
Valancy crossed Cissy’s hands on her breast and went to the open
window. In the eastern sky, amid the fires of sunrise, an old moon was
hanging—as slender and lovely as a new moon. Valancy had never seen an
old, old moon before. She watched it pale and fade until it paled and
faded out of sight in the living rose of day. A little pool in the
barrens shone in the sunrise like a great golden lily.
But the world suddenly seemed a colder place to Valancy. Again nobody
needed her. She was not in the least sorry Cecilia was dead. She was
only sorry for all her suffering in life. But nobody could ever hurt
her again. Valancy had always thought death dreadful. But Cissy had
died so quietly—so pleasantly. And at the very last—something—had made
up to her for everything. She was lying there now, in her white sleep,
looking like a child. Beautiful! All the lines of shame and pain gone.
Roaring Abel drove in, justifying his name. Valancy went down and told
him. The shock sobered him at once. He slumped down on the seat of his
buggy, his great head hanging.
“Cissy dead—Cissy dead,” he said vacantly. “I didn’t think it would ‘a’
come so soon. Dead. She used to run down the lane to meet me with a
little white rose stuck in her hair. Cissy used to be a pretty little
girl. And a good little girl.”
“She has always been a good little girl,” said Valancy.
CHAPTER XXIV
Valancy herself made Cissy ready for burial. No hands but hers should
touch that pitiful, wasted little body. The old house was spotless on
the day of the funeral. Barney Snaith was not there. He had done all he
could to help Valancy before it—he had shrouded the pale Cecilia in
white roses from the garden—and then had gone back to his island. But
everybody else was there. All Deerwood and “up back” came. They forgave
Cissy splendidly at last. Mr. Bradly gave a very beautiful funeral