She was fond of watching the budding of the trees beyond her window--a novel sight to her Californian experience--and of asking Carry their names and seasons.

Even at this time she projected for that summer, which seemed to her so mysteriously withheld, long walks with Carry through the leafy woods, whose gray, misty ranks she could see along the hilltop.

She even thought she could write poetry about them, and recalled the fact as evidence of her gaining strength; and there is, I believe, still treasured by one of the members of this little household a little carol so joyous, so simple, and so innocent that it might have been an echo of the robin that called to her from the window, as perhaps it was.
And then, without warning, there dropped from Heaven a day so tender, so mystically soft, so dreamily beautiful, so throbbing and alive with the fluttering of invisible wings, so replete and bounteously overflowing with an awakening and joyous resurrection not taught by man or limited by creed, that they thought it fit to bring her out and lay her in that glorious sunshine that sprinkled like the droppings of a bridal torch the happy lintels and doors.

And there she lay beatified and calm.
Wearied by watching, Carry had fallen asleep by her side; and Mrs.
Starbottle's thin fingers lay like a benediction on her head.

Presently she called Jack to her side.
"Who was that," she whispered, "who just came in ?" "Miss Van Corlear," said Jack, answering the look in her great hollow eyes.
"Jack," she said, after a moment's silence, "sit by me a moment; dear Jack: I've something I must say.