A dreadful hush fell over the small room. I whispered to the mother and
asked: "Why did you wait so long to send for me? All this would have
been different."
With a kind of stare, she looked at me.
"I can't remember why I didn't send," she said, her hand to her head,
and added: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a
coffin. Then I knew it all."
The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa,
as if to say: "It's time to go." The wretched funeral service was over.
Without a word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She
laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her
shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble
figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the
cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked
down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the
stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with
illumined eyes sang the glorious melody:
"Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh! take her to thy care.
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