Page - 161 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

sorrow and for our only consolation in the hour when no other comfort reaches the soul, when strangers cannot understand us and when the mother’s heart has ceased to beat. Hail, O rich and eternal legacy! Now the door of the parlour opened softly and Maria, the younger sister, stepped out. The girl at once began to cry when she saw the brother of whom they had all spoken so often, for whom mother’s last glance had asked and who was far away when she closed her eyes. Now he lay there on his knees and cried over the memory of her life. Even her children here at home had slept through the night of the death. Not till the glow of early morning lit up the little windows did father go to the girls in the bedroom and say: “Open your eyes and look out. The sun is already rising over the Wechsel; and the Blessed Virgin is sitting on the mountain-top, with the Child Jesus on her knee; and your mother is sitting on the stool at her feet, with a spinning- wheel before her, weaving her heavenly garment.” Then they knew at once that mother was dead. “Would you like to look at her?” my sister now asked. And she went to the head of the bier and slowly raised the shroud. I saw my mother. Heaven’s bliss still lay on the stiff, stark visage. The load was gone from my heart, relieved and comforted; I looked upon the dear features as though I were contemplating a white flower. It was no longer the poor, sick, weary woman that lay before me: it was the face lit up with a ray from the youthful days long past. She lay there slumbering and was strong and well. She was young again and white and gentle; she wore a little smile, as she often did when she looked at the merry little fellow playing about with his toys at her feet. The dark and glossy hair (she had no grey hairs yet) was carefully braided and peeped out a little at the temples from under the brown kerchief, the one which she loved best to wear upon her head when she went to church on holidays. She held her hands folded over her breast, with the rosary and the wax candle between them. She lay there just as though she had fallen asleep in church on Whit Sunday, during the solemn High Mass; and thus, even in death, she comforted her child. But the rough hands clearly showed that the slumberer had led a hard and toilful life. And so you stood before this sacred image, nearly as still and motionless as the sleeper. At last, you whispered to your little sister, who stood softly weeping by your side: