aid. "He was standing there--at the foot of the bed. And--and--I
held out my arms to him. Oh, Stumpy, I almost thought--I was going with
him then. But--I think he heard you coming, for he laughed and drew back.
'We shall meet in the morning,' he said. And while I was still looking,
he was gone."

She began to pant. He stooped and raised her. She clung to him with all
her waning strength. "Stumpy! Stumpy! You will help me--through the
night?"

"My darling, yes," he said.

She clung to him still. "It won't be--good-bye," she urged softly. "You
will be coming too--very soon."

"God grant it!" he said, under his breath.

Her look dwelt upon him. Again faintly she smiled. "Ah, Stumpy," she
said, "but you are going to be very happy first, my dear,--my dear."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE MOUNTAIN-TOP

The night fell like a black veil, starless and still. Up in Isabel's room
the watchers came and went, dividing the hours. Only the nurse and old
Biddy remained always at their posts, the one seated near one of the
wide-flung windows, the other crouched on an ottoman at the foot of the
bed, her beady eyes perpetually fixed upon the white, motionless face
upon the pillow.

Only by the irregular and sometimes difficult breathing did they know
that Isabel still lived, for she gave no sign of consciousness, uttered
no word, made no voluntary movement of any sort. Like those who watched
about her, she seemed to be waiting, waiting for the amazing revelation
of the Dawn.

They had propped her high with pillows; her pale hands lay outside the
coverlet. Her eyes were closed. She did not seem to notice who came or
went.

"She may slip away without waking," the nurse whispered once to Dinah who
had crept to her side. "Or she may be conscious just at the last. There
is no telling."

Dinah did not think that she was asleep, but yet during all her vigil the
white lids had not stirred, no spark of vitality had touched the marble
face. She was possessed by a great longing to speak to her, to call her
out of that trance-like silence; but she did not dare. She was as one
bound by a spell. The great stillness was too holy to break. All her
own troubles were sunk in oblivion. She felt as if she moved in a
shadow-world where no troubles could penetrate, where no voice was
ever lifted above a whisper.

As she crept from the room, she met Eustace entering. He looked gaunt and
haggard in the dim light. Nothing seemed natural on that nig