“The sun has gone down,” said Margaretta, suddenly.

It had indeed. The huge golden ball had just dropped behind the hills on the western side of the river.

Grandma half-raised herself on her cushions, a restrained eagerness took possession of her, as if she were disappointed that she had not obtained one more glimpse of the king of day, then she sank back and smiled into the unwavering eyes of her youngest granddaughter. The eyes of the others might occasionally wander. Berty’s gaze had not left her face since they came upon the river.

“You wished to see the sun again,” said Berty. “I should have warned you that it was about to disappear.”

“I wished to say good-bye to it,” said Grandma, “a last good-bye.”

[278]

“To say good-bye,” repeated Berty, in a stunned voice, “a last good-bye,” and with a heart-broken gesture she put her hand to her head, as if wondering if she had heard aright.

Margaretta was trembling. Since the withdrawal of the sun, the yellow, lovely glow had faded. There was a gray shadow on everything, even on their own bright faces—on all except Grandma’s. That radiance about her was not a reflection of any light in this world; it was unearthly; and she fearfully touched Roger with a finger.

She knew now why they had been brought out upon the river, and, endeavouring once, twice, and finally a third time, she managed to utter, in a quivering voice, “Grandma, shall we take you home?”

“No, Margaretta,” replied Grandma, clearly, and she pointed down the river. “Take me toward the sea. I shall soon be sent for.”

They all understood her now. Their scarcely suppressed forebodings rushed back and enveloped them in a dark, unhappy cloud.

Grandma was repeating in a low voice, “Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself, for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.”

[279]

Margaretta, leaning over, drew a flask from Roger’s pocket. Then, slipping past the motionless Berty, she knelt before her grandmother.

“Dearest, I brought a stimulant with me. Will you have some?”

“But I have no need of it,” said Grandma, opening wide her strangely beautiful eyes.

It seemed to Margaretta that she could not endure their bliss, their radiance. She turned her head quietly away, and, with a rain of tears falling down her face, sat looking out over the river.

Presently controlling herself, she again turned to her grandmother. Perhaps there was something she could do for her. Her hands might be cold. They were, and Margaretta, taking them in her own, chafed them gently.

Grandma smiled quietly. “Always thoughtful—my dear, you will be a mother to Bonny.”

“I will,” said the weeping girl.

“Do not be unhappy,” said Grandma, pleadingly. “I am so happy to go. My earthly house is in order. I long for my heavenly one.”

“But—but, Grandma, you have been happy with us,” stammered Margaretta.

“Happy, so happy—always remember that. My only trouble a separated family. One half in[280] heaven, the other on earth. One day to be reunited. You will cherish each other after I am gone—you precious ones on earth—Roger?”

The young man nodded, and bent his head low over the oars.

“And Tom,” said Grandma, with exquisite sweetness, “my third grandson, you will take care of Berty?” Tom tried to speak, failed, tried again, but Grandma knew the significance of his hoarse, inarticulate murmur. Then he averted his gaze from the heart-breaking sight of Berty at her grandmother’s feet. The despairing girl had clasped them to her breast. Grandma was more to her than any of the............