"She never did rally. I was with her when she died, and her last act was
to draw her child towards her with her feeble arms and lay my hand upon
the little one's head, looking up at me with sorrowful pleading eyes. She
was quite speechless then, but I knew what the look meant, and answered
it.
"'To the end of my life, my dear,' I said, 'I shall love and cherish
her--to the end of my life.'
"After this the child fell asleep in my arms as I sat by the bedside
sharing the long melancholy watch with the landlady, who behaved very
well at this sorrowful time. We sat in the quiet room all night, the
little one wrapped in a shawl and nestled upon my breast. In the early
summer morning Lucy Nowell died, very peacefully; and I carried Marian
down to the sofa in the parlour, and laid her there still asleep. She
cried piteously for her mother when she awoke, and I had to tell her that
which it is so hard to tell a child.
"I wrote to Mr. Nowell at an address in Brussels which I found at the top
of his last letter to his wife. No answer came. I wrote again, after a
little while, with the same result; and, in the mean time, the child had
grown fonder of me and dearer to me every day. I had hired a nursemaid
for her, and had taken an upper room for her nursery; but she spent the
greater part of her life with me, and I began to fancy that Providence
intended I should keep her with me for the rest of her days.
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