Reuben nodded; his dulled senses hardly heard the words.  When the study-door next opened, Draxy herself came out, walking with a slow, measured step which transformed her whole bearing.  Her face was perfectly calm, but colorless as white stone.  At sight of her father her lips quivered, and she stretched out both hands to him; but she only said, “Where is Reuby?” And as soon as she heard she went quickly up the stairs, adding, “Do not follow me, father dear; you cannot help me.”

Mrs. Plummer sat in the dark garret, leaning her head against the dusty rafters, as near as she could get to poor little Reuby.  Her eyes were shut, and tears stood on her cheeks.  Suddenly she was startled by Draxy’s low voice, saying,—­

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Plummer; it was very kind in you to stay here and not wake him up.  I will sit by him now.”

Mrs. Plummer poured forth incoherent words of sympathy and sorrow, but Draxy hardly seemed to hear her.  She stood quietly, making no reply, waiting for her to go.

“O Mis’ Kinney, Mis’ Kinney, do cry a little, can’t ye?” exclaimed the warm-hearted woman; “it scares us to death to see ye this way.”

Draxy smiled.  “No, my dear friend.  I cannot cry now.  I suppose I shall sometimes, because I am very selfish, and I shall be so lonely; but just now I am only thinking how happy he is in these first hours in heaven.”  The tears stood in her eyes, but her look was as of one who gazed rapturously inside the pearly gates.  Mrs. Plummer stole softly away, overawed and afraid.  As she went out of the house, she said to Reuben:  “Mis’ Kinney ain’t no mortal woman.  She hain’t shed a tear yet, and she jest looks as glorified as the Elder can this minute in sight o’ God’s very throne itself.  O Mr. Miller, I’m afraid she’ll break down.  This kind o’ grief is what kills folks.”

“No,” said Reuben, “you don’t know Draxy.  She won’t break down.  She’ll take care on us all jest the same, but ye won’t never see again the same face you used to see.  Oh, I can’t be reconciled, I can’t!” And Reuben groaned aloud.

The next morning, when Draxy came out of the study, her hair was white as snow.  As her father first caught sight of her, he stared wildly for a moment as at some stranger; then crying out, “O Draxy!  O my little girl!” he tottered and would have fallen if she had not caught him and led him to a chair.

“O father dear,” she exclaimed, “don’t feel so!  I wouldn’t call him back this minute if I could,” and she smiled piteously.

“O Draxy—­’tain’t that,” gasped Reuben.  “O daughter! you’re dyin’ and never lettin’ us know it.  Your hair’s as white’s mine.”  Draxy gave a startled glance at the mirror, and said, in a much more natural tone than she had hitherto spoken in:  “I don’t think that’s strange.  It’s happened before to people in great trouble.  I’ve read of it:  you’ll get used to it very soon, father dear.  I’m glad of it; I’ll be all in white now,” she added in a lower tone, speaking dreamily, as if to herself,—­“they walk in white; they walk in white.”