tears blinding him, spite of his Indian nature.

The old woman composed herself, and lay quite still and decorous for a
short time; then, rousing herself a little, "Septimius," said she, "is
there just a little drop of my drink left? Not that I want to live any
longer, but if I could sip ever so little, I feel as if I should step into
the other world quite cheery, with it warm in my heart, and not feel shy
and bashful at going among strangers."

"Not one drop, auntie."

"Ah, well, no matter! It was not quite right, that last cup. It had a queer
taste. What could you have put into it, Seppy, darling? But no matter, no
matter! It's a precious stuff, if you make it right. Don't forget the
herbs, Septimius. Something wrong had certainly got into it."

These, except for some murmurings, some groanings and unintelligible
whisperings, were the last utterances of poor Aunt Keziah, who did not
live a great while longer, and at last passed away in a great sigh, like a
gust of wind among the trees, she having just before stretched out her
hand again and grasped that of Septimius; and he sat watching her and
gazing at her, wondering and horrified, touched, shocked by death, of
which he had so unusual a terror,--and by the death of this creature
especially, with whom he felt a sympathy that did not exist with any other
person now living. So long did he sit, holding her hand, that at last he
was conscious that it was growing cold within his own, and that the
stiffening fingers clutched him, as if they were disposed to keep their
hold, and not forego the tie that had been so peculiar.

Then rushing hastily forth, he told the nearest available neighbor, who was