"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband in his turn; "what on earth for? That's the very last thing to be done."
"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Certainly I would--that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless grieving?--unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no; just let her sleep quietly, and you go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I thought you were wiser."
"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"
"Not one bit more than she would be to-night, and she won't have so much time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way she will do well enough,--children always do."
Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.
"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking the fire very energetically; "it would not do at all,--I cannot allow it."
Mrs. Montgomery silently rose 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.
Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the 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. It was with a kind of lingering unwillingness to quit her hold of them that one thing after another was stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She felt it was love's last act; words might indeed a few times yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper;--but sight, and hearing, and touch must all have done henceforth for ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on busily with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her task, she went to the bedside; she had not looked that way before.