The withered old hands clasped each other.
"Jemmy! O _Jemmy_!"
Caroline never moved.
"It _is_ you, Jemmy!"
The faded eyes devoured the little white figure.
"I thought you'd never come, Jemmy--but I knew they'd send you. I'm
all ready. Don't you think I'm afraid, Jemmy: I'm eighty-four years
old, and I want to go."
Caroline hardly breathed; a nameless awe held her motionless and
silent.
"You see, I don't sleep much any more, Jemmy," the old, toneless
voice went on, "and hardly any at night. They're very kind, all of
them, but I'm--I'm eighty-four years old, and I want to go."
The ivory tulips gleamed under the stars; the silver lamp, burned
lower and lower: its oil was nearly gone.
"And you brought your yellow kitty, too, Jemmy! To think of that!
Did they think I wouldn't know my baby? It's only fifty years, ...
shall I come now, Jemmy?"
The silver lamp went out. In the starlight Caroline saw the lace cap
droop forward, as the the old woman's head settled gently on her
breast. Her hands lay clasped on the great volume; her deep-set eyes
were closed. She read no more from the book, and the child, awed and
sober, stole like a shadow behind the gray wall and left the quiet
figure in the carved chair.
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