Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep
fringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair
has been smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual
beauty in her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on
one side of the bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing
intently on the sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies
come in, noiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers
there to all but Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the
journey homeward for mortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little
back from the bed, and the two ladies stand in her place, leaning
forward, with half-suspended breathing. The almost classic beauty of
Miss Carson's face; the exquisite cutting of every feature; the
purity of its tone--are all at once so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that
she gazes down, wonder and admiration mingling with awe and
self-accusation.
There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white
lips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and
all is still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows,
close beside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not
of the earth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they
recede. With the last pencil of sunbeams passes the soul of Mary
Carson.
"It is over!" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards
from the bed.
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