She remembered about the paper, and the new furniture, and how she was to have a new mother, and how she had torn the paper, and how her own mother had never had such things, but she remembered through a delicious haze.

She felt a charming warmth pervade all her veins.

She was no longer unhappy.
Nothing seemed to matter.

She soon fell asleep.
As for Harry Edgham, he entered the empty room which he had occupied with his dead wife.

He set the lamp on the floor and approached the paper, which poor little Maria, in her fit of futile rebellion, had torn.