Montgomery silently arose and lit a lamp.
"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.
"I must — I must put her things together."
"But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that
required a promise.
"Not if I can help it."
Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached to door of
Ellen's room, for her heart failed her. But she _must_ go on,
and the necessary preparations for the morrow _must_ be made —
she knew it; and repeating this to herself, she gently turned
the handle of the door, and pushed it open, and guarding the
light with her hand from Ellen's eyes, she set it where it
would not shine upon her. Having done this, she set herself,
without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all
things in order for her early departure on the following
morning. But it was a bitter piece of work for her. She first
laid out all that Ellen would need to wear; the dark merino,
the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean frill that
her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and
all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness
of love; but it went through and through her heart that it was
the very last time a mother's fingers would ever be busy in
arranging or preparing Ellen's attire; the very last time she
would ever see or touch even the little inanimate things that
belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she was loth to
have it come to an end.
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