As if to protect herself from it, she raised her hand and laid it across her eyes.

Then it fell again to the coverlet--thin, flower-like hand, which in its translucency of flesh seemed to have been created by spirit for its chosen abode.
When silence had lasted some moments-- 'Now that I know he is dead,' Emily resumed--oh, the sad music of the last word!--'I can bear to hear the manner of it without disguise.

Will you tell me the whole truth, Mrs.Baxendale ?' It was spoken like herself.

Ever clinging to sincerity, ever ready to face the truth of things, in how many a matter of less moment had the girl spoken with just this directness, inspiring respect in all who heard her clear, candid voice.
Mrs.Baxendale sank her eyes, and hesitated.
'He died by his own hand,' Emily said, below her breath.
The lady kept silence.

Emily again closed her eyes, and, as she so lay, felt warm lips touch her forehead.
Mrs.Baxendale believed for a moment that the sufferer had lost consciousness, but the utterance of her name caused Emily to raise her lids.
'Why did he do this ?' she asked, regarding her friend fixedly.
'No one can say, dear.' Emily drew a deep sigh; a gleam passed over her face.
'There was an inquest ?' she asked.
'Yes.' 'Is it possible for me to see a newspaper in which it was reported ?' 'If you really desire it,' said Mrs.Baxendale, with hesitation.
'I do; I wish to read it.