When she went again in the morning, he lay white,
motionless, and without a breath.
It was not in Mary's nature to give sudden vent to her feelings.
For a time she was stunned. As if her life had rushed to overtake
her departing parent, and beg a last embrace, she stood gazing
motionless. The sorrow was too huge for entrance. The thing could
not be! Not until she stooped and kissed the pale face, did the
stone in her bosom break, and yield a torrent of grief. But,
although she had left her father in that very spot the night
before, already she not only knew but felt that was not he which
lay where she had left him. He was gone, and she was alone. She
tried to pray, but her heart seemed to lie dead in her bosom, and
no prayer would rise from it. It was the time of all times when,
if ever, prayer must be the one reasonable thing--and pray she
could not. In her dull stupor she did not hear Beenie's knock.
The old woman entered, and found her on her knees, with her
forehead on one of the dead hands, while the white face of her
master lay looking up to heaven, as if praying for the living not
yet privileged to die. Then first was the peace of death broken.
Beenie gave a loud cry, and turned and ran, as if to warn the
neighbors that Death was loose in the town. Thereupon, as if
Death were a wild beast yet lurking in it, the house was filled
with noise and tumult; the sanctuary of the dead was invaded by
unhallowed presence; and the poor girl, hearing behind her voices
she did not love, raised herself from her knees, and, without
lifting her eyes, crept from the room and away to her own.
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