very happy.” She heard him this time patiently, and he began to feel that his eloquence was irresistible, the more so that he saw the handkerchief to her eyes.
“Mr. Smithson, I am really very sorry, but I can’t do what you ask. I am very much obliged to you for your kind feeling, but I can’t be your wife. Though I’m sure I shall never see George again, I love him, and I would not marry any man unless I loved him alone. Don’t ask me again. You have known me since I was a little girl that you used to take on your knee—don’t, for my sake, ask me again—I must refuse. Let us be friends,” and she held out her hand. He took it.
“My dear Miss Vaughan—my dear Jane, I’m very sorry; I didn’t know this—I respect you very much—I—I—if you can’t be my wife you must be my daughter. I bought this for my wife, as I thought, I’ll give it to my daughter. There, don’t say a word more, there’s a good girl. I’ll see your father.”
“And mother, please,” said Jane.
“Oh, yes, and your mother too.”
He left, and Jane found on the table a handsome gold watch and chain, and Jane wore it, and walked with Mr. Smithson to church next Sunday, and when he came of an evening made his favourite mixture for him; and he, in return, got for her all the information relative to the expedition. Never heard the name of Franklin mentioned in the papers, but he worried the Admiralty till they sent him the latest particulars in an envelope with a very large seal.
So passed the time. One by one her younger sisters grew up and found in Jane a friend and confidante. One by one they told her woman’s great secret—they were loved and they loved. She saw them happy brides and mothers, and not a word of envy did they hear. She nursed their children, worked for their husbands, advised on all matters—when asked—and became a sun to the circle that was about her, so that “Aunt Jane’s coming!” was a cry that brought joy to many little hearts, as well as a sense of peace and repose to older ones But there was one group among them that was pre-eminently her care. His brother William married, and his children afterwards knew that to Aunt Jane he was indebted for almost everything. She made him the man he was; encouraged, helped him, as only a sensible woman can help a young man; and in William’s house Aunt Jane was a household god.
She had strange ways, too, had Aunt Jane; he hated snow: nothing would induce her to see it. She would sit in her own room all the time it was on the ground, with candles instead of daylight; and once, when little George brought her a snowball he had made, she burst into tears and sent him away, and was not herself again for a long time. Strange, too, her fancy for the sea; she would in the spring time go to the sea-side, to an unfrequented fishing village, and stay in the sea-worn cavities in the rocks for hours. Once, some one heard her murmur, “He can’t be drowned—he can’t be drowned!” and reported that she was mad. She smiled when she heard of it, and asked her little George whether he thought so. He wished everybody was, if she was, she was so kind—there was a man with such nice little boats on the beach: might he have one?
He had his boat—and she was mad, they said.
Poor Aunt Jane, one winter, was not well, and the children missed her much: no fingers like Aunt Jane’s to dress dolls, make kites, or mend clothes. No dance-music was like hers: everybody else got tired so soon; she would play for an hour at a time; she never danced except with children. And now here was Christmas and no Aunt Jane—it was not like Christmas at all.
She lay down, never to rise again: they were horror-stricken to find how thin she was. One evening—it was Christmas Eve—she said to them, “Is there any snow?”
“Yes; it’s nearly a foot deep.”
“Open the window-curtains, and let me see it.”
“You’d better not,” they urged; “it will make you so ill.”
“No; it will do me good, now. I shall not see it again.”
The sun was just on the horizon, and his deep red light, as the winter’s fog hung about him, shone on the snow till it was snow no longer. It was a soft covering of warm red—it was the summer of winter-all was warm with his light.
“Lift me up to see it: that will do. I wonder how it looks where he is. I’ve heard that it’s very beautiful. William, take care of this,” and she gave him from under her pillow a parcel in white paper. “You know what it is; and take this letter to Dr. Burnett, and see him, will you? Now bid me good-bye, all of you.”
They would not leave her.
“Do, I ask it as a favour. Do, I shall not ask many more. Come, kiss me now, and leave me. I should like to die alone, as perhaps he did—as perhaps he did. Do go.”
At last they went, one by one, slowly, William last.
“William, dear.”
“Jane.”
“I forgive you now. Only listen to what Dr. Burnett says, will you? Kiss me once more: now go. * * * He would die of cold—perhaps alone. I will join him by the same road—of cold, and alone.”
She rose with great effort, and moved to the window; the sun was nearly lost, the warm hues of red had gone, a dull heavy purple had their place. She opened the window wide, and let the cold blast blow upon her, murmuring, “Of cold, and alone! of cold, and alone! God, forgive me! It’s but a few hours less, and life is so weary.—Of cold, and alone!”
They came in soon, and found her dead. She had gone his road—cold, and alone!—with a sweet smile upon her pale thin face.
****
“You’re the person to whom this letter refers, sir, I presume?”
“I am, sir.”
“Well, sir, you’re a man now, and, to judge by your looks, a sensible one, and can there-