A last surprise awaited me. Bethulah now lived all alone in Yarchi's
pine cottage, which the years had left untouched.
Whether accident or purpose settled her there I do not know, but my
heart was overcharged with mingled emotion as I went up the garden the
next day to pay her a farewell visit. The poppies flaunted riotously
amid the neglected maize, but the cottage itself seemed tidy.
It was the season when the cold wrinkled lips of winter meet the first
kiss of spring, and death is passing into resurrection. It was the
hour when the chill shadows steal upon the sunlit day. In the sky was
the shot purple of a rolling moor, merging into a glow of lovely
green.
I stood under the porch where Yarchi had been wont to sun and snuff
himself, and knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, I lifted
the latch softly and looked in.
Bethulah was at her little table, her head lying on a great old Bible
which her arms embraced. One long finger of departing sunlight pointed
through the window and touched the flowers on the gray hair. I stole
in with a cold fear that she was dead. But she seemed only asleep,
with that sleep of old age which is so near to death and is yet the
renewal of life.
I was curious to see what she had been reading. It was the eighteenth
chapter of Genesis, and in the shadow of her crown ran the verses:--
"_And the Lord said unto Abraham, Wherefore did Sarah laugh, saying,
Shalt I of a surety bear a child, which am old?_
"_Is anything too hard for the Lord?_"
* * * * *