In a rosewood box, into which he had not looked for years, there
was a mass of longer, paler, more uneven curls than these, but
Arthur would not distress Edith by telling her about them, and he
replied, at last, "I will put them away, myself." Then taking them
from her and going to his own private chamber, he opened the box
and dropped them in, weeping when he saw how strongly they
contrasted with the other faded crazy curls, as he called them.
In a plain white muslin, which had been made for Nina at Grassy
Spring, they arrayed her for the coffin, the soft, rich lace
encircling her throat and falling about her slender arms folded so
meekly together. Flowers were twined about her head--flowers were
on her pillow--flowers in her hands--flowers upon her bosom--
flowers of purest white, and meet emblems of the sweet young girl,
whose features, to the last, retained the same childlike, peaceful
expression which had settled upon them when she called back to
Arthur, "Climb up the bank. I'm most across."
The day of her burial was balmy and warm, and the southern wind
blew softly across the fields as the weeping band followed the
lost one across the threshold and laid her away where the flowers
of spring would blossom above her little grave.
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