One more human item lay
still and stiff, one more account was closed for good or evil, the echo
of one more tread had passed from the earth for ever. The old
million-numbered tragedy in which all must take a part had repeated
itself once more down to its last and most awful scene. Yes; the grim
farce was played out, and the little actor Jeannie was white in death!
Just at the dawn, Augusta dreamed that somebody with cold breath was
breathing on her face, and woke up with a start and listened. Jeannie's
bed was on the other side of the room, and she could generally hear her
movements plainly enough, for the sick child was a restless sleeper. But
now she could hear nothing, not even the faint vibration of her sister's
breath. The silence was absolute and appalling; it struck tangibly upon
her sense, as the darkness struck upon her eye-balls and filled her with
a numb, unreasoning terror. She slipped out of bed and struck a match. In
another few seconds she was standing by Jeannie's white little bed,
waiting for the wick of the candle to burn up. Presently the light grew.
Jeannie was lying on her side, her white face resting on her white arm.
Her eyes were wide open; but when Augusta held the candle near her she
did not shut them or flinch.
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