"
She ceased speaking, and with a low, gasping sob fell forward into the
arms of her father, who had stepped to her side in time to receive her.
It was a blustering March day when they buried Robert Grey in the
cemetery at Allington, while his sister, who had been taken directly
from the church to her home, lay unconscious in her room, only moaning
occasionally, and whispering of Robbie, whose eyes she had put out.
"People will hate me always," she said, when after weeks of brain fever
she was herself again. But in this she was mistaken, for the people who
knew her best loved her most, and as the years went on, and all felt the
influence of her pure, stainless, unselfish life, they came to esteem
her as almost a saint, and no house was complete which had not in it
some likeness of the sad, but inexpressibly sweet face which had a smile
for every one, and which was oftenest seen in the cheerless houses where
hunger and sickness were. There Lucy Grey was a ministering angel, and
the good she did could never be told in words, but was known and felt by
those who never breathed a prayer which did not have in it a thought of
her and a wish for her happiness.
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