He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came
in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly,
hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within.
"But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you
are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again.

For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves
like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to
grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help,
in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were
a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they
knew not what,--a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten,
forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble.

Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and
far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a
deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form,
rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the
ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless
weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the
Beau"

"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands,
and rocking to and fro,--"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our
life and his is gone out?"




CHAPTER VIII.