She had been almost celebrated, she had been
active, earnest, ubiquitous beyond any one else, she had given herself
utterly to charities and creeds and causes; and yet the only persons,
apparently, to whom her death made a real difference were three young
women in a small "frame-house" on Cape Cod. Ransom learned from Doctor
Prance that her mortal remains were to be committed to their rest in the
little cemetery at Marmion, in sight of the pretty sea-view she loved to
gaze at, among old mossy headstones of mariners and fisher-folk. She had
seen the place when she first came down, when she was able to drive out
a little, and she had said she thought it must be pleasant to lie there.
It was not an injunction, a definite request; it had not occurred to
Miss Birdseye, at the end of her days, to take an exacting line or to
make, for the first time in eighty years, a personal claim. But Olive
Chancellor and Verena had put their construction on her appreciation of
the quietest corner of the striving, suffering world so weary a pilgrim
of philanthropy had ever beheld.
In the course of the day Ransom received a note of five lines from
Verena, the purport of which was to tell him that he must not expect to
see her again for the present; she wished to be very quiet and think
things over. She added the recommendation that he should leave the
neighbourhood for three or four days; there were plenty of strange old
places to see in that part of the country.
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