the only sound was the crackling branches as the breeze whirred the snow

flakes from them--the moon sailed high and unclouded in the interminable

ether, while the shadow of the cottage lay black on the garden behind. I

entered this by the open wicket, and anxiously examined each window. At

length I detected a ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one

of the upper rooms--it was a novel feeling, alas! to look at any house

and say there dwells its usual inmate--the door of the house was merely

on the latch: so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase. The door of

the inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw Lucy sitting as at work at

the table on which the light stood; the implements of needlework were about

her, but her hand had fallen on her lap, and her eyes, fixed on the ground,

shewed by their vacancy that her thoughts wandered. Traces of care and

watching had diminished her former attractions--but her simple dress and

cap, her desponding attitude, and the single candle that cast its light

upon her, gave for a moment a picturesque grouping to the whole. A fearful

reality recalled me from the thought--a figure lay stretched on the bed

covered by a sheet--her mother was dead, and Lucy, apart from all the

world, deserted and alone, watched beside the corpse during the weary

night. I entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at first drew a

scream from the lone survivor of a dead nation; but she recognised me, and

recovered herself, with the quick exercise of self-control habitual to her.

"Did you not expect me?" I asked, in that low voice which the presence of

the dead makes us as it were instinctively assume.

"You are very good," replied she, "to have come yourself; I can never thank

you sufficiently; but it is too late."

478

The Last Man