Franconia, sobbing, rises from her seat, opens a window at the head
of the cot (the dead will not escape through the iron grating), and
paces the floor, while Harry and Daddy sponge the body, lay it
carefully down, and fold it in the winding-sheet. "Poor master,--God
has taken him; but how I shall miss him! I've spent happy days wid
'im in dis place, I have!" says Bob, as they lay his head on the
hard pillow. He gazes upon him with affection,--and says "Mas'r 'll
want no more clothes."
And now night is fast drawing its dark mantle over the scene,--the
refulgent shadows of the setting sun play through the grated window
into the gloomy cell: how like a spirit of goodness sent from on
high to lighten the sorrows of the downcast, seems the light. A
faint ray plays its soft tints on that face now pallid in death; how
it inspires our thoughts of heaven! Franconia watches, and watches,
as fainter and fainter it fades away, like an angel sent for the
spirit taking its departure. "Farewell!" she whispers, as darkness
shuts out the last mellow glimmer: "Come sombre night, and spread
thy stillness!"
The warden, moved by the spark of generosity his soul possesses, has
brought some cologne, and silently places it in Franconia's hands.
She advances to the cot, seats herself near the head of her dear
departed, encircles his head with her left arm, and with her white
'kerchief bathes his face with the liquid, Harry holding the vessel
in his hand, at her request.
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