Aunt Agnes certainly did look as though she needed rest. She seemed very
frail, and the color had entirely left her face. But her curling hair
was as golden as ever, and her figure as girlish and graceful. She
kissed me tenderly, and kept my hand in hers as she wandered over the
house and took long looks across the prairie.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she asked, softly. "Just the place to be happy
in! I've always had a strange fancy that I should be happy here again
some day, and now I feel as though that day had almost come. You are
happy, aren't you, dear?"
I looked at Jack, and felt the tears coming to my eyes. "Yes, I am
happy. I did not know one could be so happy," I answered, after a
moment.
Aunt Agnes smiled her sweet smile and kissed me again. "God bless you
and your Jack! You almost make me feel young again."
"As though you could possibly feel anything else," I retorted, laughing.
"You little humbug, to pretend you are old!" and slipping my arm round
her waist, for we had always been dear friends, I walked off to chat
with her in her room.
We took a ride that afternoon, for Aunt Agnes wanted another gallop over
that glorious prairie. The exercise and the perfect afternoon brought
back the color to her cheeks.
"I think I shall be much better to-morrow," she observed, as we trotted
home. "What a country this is, and what horses!" slipping her hand down
her mount's glossy neck. "I did right to come back here. I do not
believe I will go away again." And she smiled on Jack and me, who
laughed, and said she would find it a difficult thing to attempt.
We all three came out on the veranda to see the sunset. It was always a
glorious sight, but this evening it was more than usually magnificent.
Immense rays of pale blue and pink spread over the sky, and the clouds,
which stretched in horizontal masses, glowed rose and golden. The whole
sky was luminous and tender, and seemed to tremble with light.
We sat silent, looking at the sky and at the shadowy grass that seemed
to meet it. Slowly the color deepened and faded.
"There can never be a lovelier evening," said Aunt Agnes, with a sigh.
"Don't say that," replied Jack. "It is only the beginning of even more
perfect ones."
Aunt Agnes rose with a slight shiver, "It grows chilly when the sun
goes," she murmured, and turned lingeringly to enter the house. Suddenly
she gave a startled exclamation. Jack and I jumped up and looked at her.
She stood with both hands pressed to her heart, looking--
"The child again," said Jack, in a low voice, laying his hand on my arm.
He was right. There in the gathering shadow stood the little girl in the
white dress. Her hands were stretched towards us, and her lips parted
in a smile. A belated gleam of sunlight seemed to linger in her hair.
"Perdita!" cried Aunt Agnes, in a voice that shook with a kind of
terrible joy. Then, with a stifled sob, she ran forward and sank before
the baby, throwing her arms about her. The little girl leaned back her
golden head and looked at Aunt Agnes with her great, serious eyes. Then
she flung both baby arms round her neck, and lifted her sweet mouth--
Jack and I turned away, looking at each other with tears in our eyes. A
slight sound made us turn back. Aunt Agnes had fallen forward to the
floor, and the child was nowhere to be seen.
We rushed up, and Jack raised my aunt in his arms and carried her into
the house. But she was quite dead. The little child we never saw again.