The
spotless curtains that were Mary's pride: the gay flowers in the window,
to which she had given children's names: the few poor pieces of
furniture, polished with much loving labour: the shining grate: the
foolish china dogs and the little china house between them on the
mantelpiece. The fire was burning brightly, and the kettle was singing
on the hob.
Mary's work was finished. She sat upright in her straight-backed chair
before the table, her eyes half closed. It seemed so odd to see those
little work-worn hands idle upon her lap.
Joan's present lay on the table near to her, as if she had just folded it
and placed it there: the little cap and the fine robe of lawn: as if for
a king's child.
Joan had never thought that Death could be so beautiful. It was as if
some friend had looked in at the door, and, seeing her so tired, had
taken the work gently from her hands, and had folded them upon her lap.
And she had yielded with a smile.
Joan heard a faint rustle and looked up. A woman had entered. It was
the girl she had met there on a Christmas Day, a Miss Ensor.
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