Only a little pearl-handled penknife of
Harry's; but her heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and,
as she took it up, a red stain came off upon her hand.
Helen's face was turned away, and, bending nearer, Christie saw how
deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. She
listened at her lips; only a faint flutter of breath parted them;
she lifted up the averted head, and on the white throat saw a little
wound, from which the blood still flowed. Then, like a flash of
light, the meaning of the sudden change which came over her grew
clear,--her brave efforts to make the last day happy, her tender
good-night partings, her wish to be at peace with every one, the
tragic death she had chosen rather than live out the tragic life
that lay before her.
Christie's nerves had been tried to the uttermost; the shock of this
discovery was too much for her, and, in the act of calling for help,
she fainted, for the first time in her life.
When she was herself again, the room was full of people;
terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken voices whispered,
"It is too late," and, as she saw the group about the bed, she
wished for unconsciousness again.
Helen lay in her mother's arms at last, quietly breathing her life
away, for though every thing that love and skill could devise had
been tried to save her, the little knife in that desperate hand had
done its work, and this world held no more suffering for her.
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