The poor woman's deep absorption began to pass away. The
warm tears upon her hand, the head upon her lap, began to waken the
instincts of womanhood to help and console another. She stroked the
dark hair and murmured, "Poor child, poor child! Tilly was right.
Trouble makes us near of kin."
"You loved Tilly, Mrs. Wendall," Madge sobbed. "Think of where she's
gone. No more tears; no more pain; no more death."
Her touch of sympathy broke the stony paralysis; her hot tears melted
those which seemed to have congealed in the breaking heart, and the
mother took Madge in her arms and cried till her strength was gone.
When Mr. Wendall returned with some of the neighbors, Madge met him at
the door and held up a warning finger. The overwrought woman had been
soothed into the blessed oblivion of restoring sleep, the first she
had for many hours. A motherly-looking woman whispered her intention
of remaining with Mrs. Wendall all night. Mr. Wendall took Madge's
hand in both his own, and looked at her with eyes dim with tears.
Twice he essayed to speak, then turned away, faltering, "When I meet
you where Tilly is, perhaps I can tell you."
She went down the little path bordered by flowers which the dead girl
had loved and tended, and gathered a few of them.
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