had effaced all the traces of Timothy's blow. How long was it since she
had stood there before him pointing to it?

The features were already rigid. No one felt the smallest hope. Yet with
that futile tenderness all can show to the dead, everything was tried.
Mary Anne Waller came--white and speechless--and her deft gentle hands
did whatever the village doctor told her. And there were many other
women, too, who did their best. Some of them, had Bessie dared to live,
would have helped with all their might to fill her cup of punishment to
the brim. Now that she had thrown herself on death as her only friend,
they were dissolved in pity.

Everything failed. Bessie had meant to die, and she had not missed her
aim. There came a moment when the doctor, laying his ear for the last
time to her cold breast, raised himself to bid the useless effort cease.

'Send them all away,' he said to the little widow, 'and you stay.'

Watson helped to clear the room, then he and Isaac carried the dead
woman upstairs. An old man followed them, a bent and broken being, who
dragged himself up the steps with his stick. Watson, out of compassion,
came back to help him.

'John--yer'd better go home, an to yer bed--yer can't do no good.'

'I'll wait for Mary Anne,' said John, in a shaking whisper--'I'll wait
for Mary Anne.'

And he stood at the doorway leaning on his stick; his weak and reddened
eyes fixed on his cousin, his mouth open feebly.