g her own mood that day. The world
seemed such dross, the pretences of personal happiness so hollow and
delusive, after such a sight! The girl lay dying fast, with a look of
extraordinary attentiveness in her face, hearing every noise, every
footfall, and, as it seemed to Catherine, in a mood of inward joy. She
took, moreover, some notice of her visitor. As a rough tomboy of
fourteen, she had shown Catherine, who had taught her in the school
sometimes, and had especially won her regard on one occasion by a
present of some article of dress, a good many uncouth signs of
affection. On the morning in question Catherine fancied she saw
something of the old childish expression once or twice. At any rate,
there was no doubt her presence was soothing, as she read in her low
vibrating voice, or sat silently stroking the emaciated hand, raising it
every now and then to her lips with a rush of that intense pitifulness
which was to her the most natural of all moods.

The doctor, whom she met there, said that this state of calm was very
possibly only transitory. The night had been passed in a succession of
paroxysms, and they were almost sure to return upon her, especially as
he could get her to swallow none of the sedatives which might have
carried her in unconsciousness past the fatal moment. She would have
none of them; he thought that she was determined to allow of no
encroachments on the troubled remnants of intelligence still left to
her; so the only thing to be done was to wait and see the result. 'I
will come to-morrow,' said Catherine briefly; 'for the day certainly,
longer if necessary.' She had long ago established her claim to be
treated seriously as a nurse, and Dr. Baker made no objection. '_If_ she
lives so long,' he said dubiously. 'The Backhouses and Mrs. Irwin [the
neighbour] shall be close at hand. I will come in the afternoon and try
to get her to take an opiate; but I can't give it her by force, and
there is not the smallest chance of her consenting to it.'

All through Catherine's own struggle and pain during these two days the
image of the dying girl had lain at her heart. It served her as the
crucifix serves the Romanist; as she pressed it into her thought, it
recovered from time to time the failing forces of the will. Need life
be empty because self was left unsatisfied? Now, as she neared the
hamlet, the quality of her nature reasserted itself. The personal want
tugging at her senses, the personal soreness