k her in her arms, and sat down on the bed. Quieter and
quieter grew the child till suddenly an awful change passed over her
face.

"She is dying," whispered the doctor.

"Hold me close, hold me close!" said the child, whose senses returned
before the last eclipse. "Oh, Miss Granger, I shan't go to hell, shall
I? I am afraid of hell."

"No, love, no; you will go to heaven."

Jane lay still awhile. Then seeing the pale lips move, Beatrice put her
ear to the child's mouth.

"Will you come with me?" she murmured; "I am afraid to go alone."

And Beatrice, her great grey eyes fixed steadily on the closing eyes
beneath, whispered back so that no other soul could hear except the
dying child:

"Yes, I will come presently." But Jane heard and understood.

"Promise," said the child.

"Yes, I promise," answered Beatrice in the same inaudible whisper.
"Sleep, dear, sleep; I will join you very soon."

And the child looked up, shivered, smiled--and slept.

Beatrice gave it back to the weeping parents and went her way. "What a
splendid creature," said the doctor to himself as he looked after her.
"She has eyes like Fate, and the face of Motherhood Incarnate. A great
woman, if ever I saw one, but different from other women."

Meanwhile Beatrice made her way to old Edward's boat-shed. As she
expected, there was nobody there, and nobody on the beach. Old Edward
and his son were at tea, with the rest of Bryngelly. They would come
back after dark and lock up the boat-house.

She looked at the sea. There were no waves, but the breeze freshened
every minute, and there was a long slow swell upon the water. The
rollers would be running beyond the shelter of Rumball Point, five miles
away.

The tide was high; it mounted to within ten yards of the end of the
boat-house. She opened the door, and dragged out her canoe, closing
the door again after her. The craft was light, and she was strong for a
woman. Close to the boat-house one of the timber breakwaters, which
are common at sea-side places, ran down into the water. She dragged the
canoe to its side, and then pushed it down the beach till its bow was
afloat. Next, mounting on the breakwater, she caught hold of the little
chain in the bow, and walking along the timber baulks, pulled with all
her force till the canoe was quite afloat. On she went, dragging it
after her, till the waves washing over the breakwater wetted her shoes.

Then she brought the canoe quite close, and, wa