Fifteen years, and only fifteen had passed over
the form now forever still.
"She was fifteen," Guy whispered, remembering distinctly to have heard
that number from Maddy herself.
"I thought they told me fourteen, but of course it's she," the doctor
rejoined. "Poor child, I would have given much to have saved her."
Jessie did not talk; only once, when she asked Guy, if it was very far
to heaven, and if he supposed Maddy had got there by this time.
"We'll go just the same," said Guy. "I will do what I can for the old
man;" and so the carriage drove on, down the hill, across the
meadow-land, and past a low-roofed house whose walls inclosed the
stiffened form of him for whom the bell had tolled, the boy, fifteen
years of age, who had been the patient of another than Dr. Holbrook.
Maddy was not dead, but the paroxysm of restlessness had passed, and
she lay now in a heavy sleep so nearly resembling death that they who
watched, waited expectantly to see the going out of her last breath.
Never before had a carriage like that from Aikenside stopped at that
humble cottage, but the neighbors thought it came merely to bring the
doctor, whom they welcomed with a glad smile, making a way for him to
pass to Maddy's bedside.
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