of the _shadow_
of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been _near_ it--near
death, I mean,--'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over
her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That
comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to
the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened.

The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight
rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a
room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor.
I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I
listened as if I was all ears.

'I think, now----' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said.

But then came much plainer--of course I know his voice so well--from
father, '_Thank God_.'

And I knew Hebe was better.

I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old,
when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it.
She said she thought that to good people--you know what I mean by 'good
people'--_Christians_--it should always seem as if, after all, even when
they really do have to die, it is only the _shadow_ that they have to go
through--'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any
dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that
is promised to us--'I will be with thee.'

I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand
it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a
wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of
death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid
of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different.

And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the
shadow. When she got _quite_ well, she told me about it--of the feelings
and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she
was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had
had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see
us, and she wished she could hold my hand--'your dear, rough, brown
hand, Jack,' she said. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands
very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!)

Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the
floor and made me dream.

CHAPTER VII

FOUR 'IF'S' AND A COINCIDENCE

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