Page:Authors daughter v1.djvu/18

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14
THE AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER.

was lifted gently from the spring-cart, and laid on the bed in the spare room. Amy followed the remains of all that was dear to her in the world, and shrinkingly took the cold hand that would never press hers more, while Mrs. Lindsay and Jessie tried to comfort her.

They tried to coax her out of the room while they did the last sad offices for her father, but she would not leave it.

"This should be yours, now, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, as she began to take off the wedding-ring from the little finger.

"No, no," said Amy. "Papa never would part with that; he should carry that to the grave with him. I will not take it. But is he—is he really dead? They said they would send for a doctor."

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "he is past all doctor's skill now; but we'll send for Dr. Burton to satisfy you that no skill could have saved him from the first. Allan will go at once if it would be any comfort to you. I suppose George Copeland is in the house, Jessie; he maun ride to Aralewin as fast as he can, to tell Mr. Hammond of this awfu' dispensation."

"George is gone already. Tom Cross gave him the letters, and he was off in five minutes;