Of her former plentitude of happiness, that brief visit was all that remained to the unfortunate.

She could then ask about her son, and be told of his welfare, with such bits of news concerning him as the messenger could glean.

Usually the information was meagre enough, yet comforting; at times she heard he was at home; then she would issue from her dreary cell at break of day, and sit till noon, and from noon to set of sun, a motionless figure draped in white, looking, statue-like, invariably to one point--over the Temple to the spot under the rounded sky where the old house stood, dear in memory, and dearer because he was there.

Nothing else was left her.

Tirzah she counted of the dead; and as for herself, she simply waited the end, knowing every hour of life was an hour of dying--happily, of painless dying.
The things of nature about the hill to keep her sensitive to the world's attractions were wretchedly scant; beasts and birds avoided the place as if they knew its history and present use; every green thing perished in its first season; the winds warred upon the shrubs and venturous grasses, leaving to drought such as they could not uproot.