"
Connie gave her governess a hug and said, "Why did not she leave you all
her money, Miss Vivian? everybody says she was wicked and unkind to die
without--"
"My dear," cried Mary, "do not repeat what ignorant people say, because
it is not true."
"But mamma said it, Miss Vivian."
"She does not know, Connie,--you must not say it. I will tell your mamma
she must not say it; for nobody can know so well as I do,--and it is not
true--"
"But they say," cried Connie, "that that is why she can't rest in her
grave. You must have heard. Poor old lady, they say she cannot rest in
her grave, because--"
Mary seized the child in her arms with a pressure that hurt Connie. "You
must not! You must not!" she cried, in a sort of panic. Was she afraid
that some one might hear? She gave Connie a hurried kiss, and turned her
face away, looking out into the vacant room. "It is not true! it is not
true!" she cried, with a great excitement and horror, as if to stay a
wound. "She was always good, and like an angel to me. She is with the
angels. She is with God. She cannot be disturbed by anything--anything!
Oh, let us never say, or think, or imagine--" Mary cried. Her cheeks
burned, her eyes were full of tears. It seemed to her that something of
wonder and anguish and dismay was in the room round her,--as if some
one unseen had heard a bitter reproach, an accusation undeserved, which
must wound to the very heart.
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