She died in the early morning while Henrietta slept. Susan, entering as usual with Henrietta’s tea, did not say a word. She knew her place; it was not for her to give the news to a member of the family; moreover, she blamed Henrietta for Miss Caroline’s death. It was the Battys’ ball that had killed Miss Caroline, and Susan stuck to her belief that if it had not been for Miss Henrietta, there would not have been a ball. Sleepily, Henrietta watched Susan draw the blinds, but something in the woman’s slow, languid movements startled her into wakefulness. Her dreams dropped back into their place. She had been sleeping warmly, forgetfully, while death hovered over the house, looking for a way in. She sat up in bed. “Aunt Caroline?” Susan began to cry, but in spite of her tears and her distress she ejaculated dutifully, “Miss Henrietta, your dressing-gown, your slippers!” but Henrietta had rushed forth and bounded into Rose’s room. “You might have told me! You might have waked me!” Rose was writing at her desk. She turned. “Put on your dressing-gown, Henrietta. You will get cold. I came into your room but you were fast asleep, and in that minute it was all over. The big things happen so quickly.” Yes, that was true. Quickly one fell in and out of love, ran away from home, returned and slept and waked to find that people had quickly died. The big things happened quickly, but the little ones of every day went on slow feet, as though they were tired of themselves. “It was somehow a comfort,” Rose went on, “to know that you were fast asleep, but living. You never moved when I kissed you.” “Kissed me? What did you do that for?” Henrietta asked in a loud voice. She had been taken unawares by the woman who had wronged her, yet she was touched and pleased. “I couldn’t help it. I was so glad to have you there, and you looked so young. I don’t know what we should do without you, poor Sophia and I. Oh, do put on my dressing-gown!” “Yes, dear, yes, put on the dressing-gown.” It was Sophia who spoke. Her face was very calm; she actually looked younger, as though the greatness of her sorrow had removed all other signs, like a fall of snow hiding the scars of a hillside. “Oh, Aunt Sophia!” Henrietta went forward and pressed her cheek against the other’s. “Yes, dear, but you must go and dress. Breakfast is ready.”