withdrew. Searle opened his eyes and looked at her from head to foot. Suddenly he seemed to perceive her mourning. "Already!" he cried, audibly; with a smile, as I believe, of pleasure.
She dropped on her knees and took his hand. "Not for you, cousin," she whispered. "For my poor brother."
He started in all his deathly longitude as with a galvanic shock. "Dead! he dead! Life itself!" And then, after a moment, with a slight rising inflection: "You are free?"
"Free, cousin. Sadly free. And now—now—with what use for freedom?"
He looked steadily a moment into her eyes, dark in the heavy shadow of her musty mourning veil. "For me," he said, "wear colors!"
In a moment more death had come, the doctor had silently attested it, and Miss Searle had burst into sobs.
We buried him in the little churchyard in which he had expressed the wish to lie; beneath one of the mightiest of English yews and the little tower than which none in all England has a softer and hoarier gray. A year has passed. Miss Searle, I believe, has begun to wear colors.
