THE August morning was a glorious one, and every
shrub, and flower, and plat of grass at Oakwood
seemed fairly to laugh, as, glistening with the rain-drops
which had fallen through the night, they lifted their
heads to the beautiful summer sunlight which came up the
eastern hills, and bathed the earth in a sea of mellow light.
The air, purified by the thunder-shower, was cool and sweet,
and laden with the perfume of the many flowers which
dotted the handsome lawn, while the birds almost burst
their little throats with gladness as they sang amid the trees,
and flew about the house, from whose door-knobs knots of
crape were streaming, and whose shutters were closed to
shut out the glorious day which only mocked the sorrow of
those who wept that morning for their loved and lost one.
Georgie was dead. Just as the lightning-flash and the
thunder-roll passed away, and the young moon broke through
the rift of dark storm-clouds, she looked her last good-by to
those around her, and her spirit fled to Him who would
deal justly with her, and of whom she had no fears as she
went down the river-bank and launched out into the stream
whose waters never return to lave the shores of time.

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It was a very easy death she died; so easy, that Jack,
who held her in his arms, only knew the moment of her departure
by the sudden pressure of her hand on his, and the
falling of her head upon his bosom. She had said good-by
to every one, and left for all a friendly word, and tried, as
far as possible, to repair any wrong she might have done.
To Edna, who was often with her, she had said once when
they were alone:

“I have something to tell you. I knew you from the
first, and but for Maude and Jack, should have told Roy
who you were. I disliked your being there, and meant to
do you harm. I purposely worried and annoyed you by
talking so much of Charlie's wife, and I exaggerated matters
when I told of Mrs. Churchill's feelings toward her daughter-in-law,
and what Roy said about her coming in disguise.
You remember it, I think. I wanted to make sure that you
would neither remain at Leighton, nor divulge your real
name to them. Forgive me, Edna, won't you? I have
much need of your forgiveness.”

And Edna had stooped and given her the kiss of pardon,
feeling, as she did so, that a load was lifted from her heart,
and that she could now make herself known to Charlie's
friends.

“Do it at once,” Georgie said. “Don't put it off, but
let Roy know who you are.”

And Edna promised that she would; and then, with
another kiss for the repentant woman, she went back to
Leighton, and when next she looked on Georgie, she was
cold and pale in death, but lay like one asleep upon her
pillow, with white lilies in her hand, and a look of perfect
peace upon her face. The pinched, disturbed look was
gone, and in its stead death gave back to her much of her
beauty. The bright color had faded from her cheeks; there
were threads of snow in her black hair, and her glorious

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eyes were closed forever; but otherwise she looked the
same, and poor Mrs. Burton wrung her hands distractedly,
as she bent over her beautiful darling, and called upon her
to waken and speak to the mother who loved her so much.
They dressed her in her wedding robes, and Roy kissed his
pale, dead bride with a great sob of pain, and forgot for
once when Brownie's step was near, and did not hear when
she spoke to him. It was a grand funeral,—the largest ever
known in Summerville, for the circumstances attending
Georgie's death had been so strange and sad that hundreds
had gathered from a distance, and came to show their respect
for the mourning family. They carried her to Greenwood,
and laid her by the side of Annie. This was Jack's thought
and wish.

“She was my sister,” he said; “nearer to me by blood
than any one else. I surely may have my wish.”

So Mrs. Burton, who had in her mind a fashionable lot,
with a monument, setting forth her daughter's virtues, and
costing from ten thousand to twenty thousand dollars, gave
way, thinking within herself that the monument was still
available, even for that rather obscure spot, and wishing
that neglected-looking grave, so near to poor, dear Georgie's,
might be removed to another part of Greenwood.

“Whose grave is it, and who was Richard Le Roy?” she
asked, after they had returned to her house in New York,
where she had proposed spending a few days until Oakwood
could be cleansed from the recent atmosphere of death.

Jack, who knew more of Richard Le Roy than any one
present, made no reply, and so it devolved on Roy to ask if
she did not remember an English family which years ago lived
on Fourteenth street, and had so many handsome daughters.

Mrs. Burton did remember something about them,
especially a piece of old lace which Mrs. Le Roy used to
wear, and whose value was immense.

p595-386

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Richard was the only son, Roy explained, a fast young
man, though very genial and companionable. He died
quite suddenly, and at the time of his death was engaged to
an elder sister of Miss Agatha Shawe; at least, so it was
said. The Le Roys had returned to England long ago, he
said, and that was all the information he could give concerning
the occupant of the lone grave, which Mrs. Burton felt
was in her way. She was satisfied, however, with what Roy
told her, and never suspected the cause of Jack's sudden
rising, and walking to the window, where he stood for a time
looking out into the summer night, and thinking strange
thoughts of the three graves in Greenwood, where slept, side
by side, Richard Le Roy, Georgie Burton, and the little
Annie.