"It is the ringers," she said. "They are tolling the passing bell."
The serving woman was soft of heart, and had her feminine emotions.
There had been much talk of this thing in the servant's hall. She turned
upon Betty, and forgot all rules and training.
"Oh, miss!" she cried. "He's gone--he's gone! That good man--out of this
hard world. Oh, miss, excuse me--do!" And as she burst into wild tears,
she ran out of the room.
. . . . .
Rosalie had been sitting in the morning room. She also had striven to
occupy herself with work. She had written to her mother, she had read,
she had embroidered, and then read again. What was Betty doing--what was
she thinking now? She laid her book down in her lap, and covering her
face with her hands, breathed a desperate little prayer. That life
should be pain and emptiness to herself, seemed somehow natural since
she had married Nigel--but pain and emptiness for Betty--No! No! No! Not
for Betty! Piteous sorrow poured upon her like a flood. She did not know
how the time passed. She sat, huddled together in her chair, with hidden
face. She could not bear to look at the rain and ghost mist out of
doors. Oh, if her mother were only here, and she might speak to her! And
as her loving tears broke forth afresh, she heard the door open.
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