I started.  I had never till that moment seen in them a subtle resemblance to the eyes of George Ware.  We had said that the baby had his mother’s eyes—­so he had; but there had always been a likeness between Annie’s eyes and George’s though hers were light-blue, and his of a blue so dark that it was often believed to be black.  All the Wares had a very peculiar luminousness of the eye; it was so marked a family trait that it had passed into almost proverbial mention, in connection with the distinguished beauty of the family.  “The Ware eye” was always recognizable, no matter what color it had taken from the admixture of other blood.

At that moment I saw, and I knew that Annie had seen, that the baby’s eyes were not so much like her own as like the deeper, sadder, darker eyes of her cousin—­brave, hopeless, dear George, who was toiling under the sun of India, making a fortune for he knew not whom.

We neither of us spoke; presently the little unconscious eyes closed in sweet sleep, and Annie went on, holding him close to her heart.

“You see, dear, poor mamma will not be able to bear seeing him after I die.  Common mothers would love him for my sake.  But mamma is not like other women.  She will come very soon where I am, poor mamma; and then you will have to take papa home to your house, and papa will have comfort in little Henry.  But he must be your baby, Helen.  I shall speak to Edward about it soon.”

She was not strong enough to talk long.  She shed no tears, however, and looked as calm as if she were telling me of pleasant plans for a coming earthly summer.  I also was perfectly calm, and felt strangely free from sorrow.  Her absolute spirituality bore me up.  It was as if I spoke with her in heaven, thousands of centuries after all human perplexities had passed away.

After this day she grew rapidly weaker.  She had no pain.  There was not a single physical symptom in her case which the science of medicine could name or meet.  There was literally nothing to be done for her.  Neither tonic nor stimulant produced the least effect.  She was noiselessly sinking out of life, as very old people sometimes die, without a single jar, or shock, or struggle.  Her beautiful serenity and entire freedom from suffering blinded Aunt Ann’s eyes to the fact that she was dying.  This was a great mercy, and we were all careful not by a word or look to rouse her to the truth.  To all her mother’s inquiries Annie invariably replied, “Better, dear mamma, better, only very weak,” and Aunt Ann believed, until the very last, that the spring would make her well again.