w, touched also--by a word here, a look
there--by the charm of the old Kitty.

"I don't deserve to die like this," she said, once, with a
half-impatient gesture. "Nothing can prevent it's being beautiful--and
touching--you know; our meeting like this--and your goodness to me. Oh,
I'm glad! But I don't want to glorify--what I've done. <i>Shame! Shame!"</i>

And again her face contracted with the old habitual agony, only to be
soothed away gradually by his tone and presence, the spending of his
whole being in the broken words of love.

Towards the morning, when, as it seemed to him, she had been sleeping
for a time, and he had been, if not sleeping, at least dreaming awake
beside her, he heard a little, low laugh, and looked round. Her brown
eyes were wide open, till they seemed to fill the small, blighted face;
and they were fixed on an empty chair the other side of the fire.

"It's so strange--in this illness," she whispered--"that it makes one
dream--and generally kind dreams. It's fever--but it's nice." She turned
and looked at him. "Harry was there, William--sitting in that chair. Not
a baby any more--but a little fellow--and so lively, and strong, and
quick. I had you both--<i>both</i>."

Looking back afterwards, also, he remembered that she spoke several
times of religious hopes and beliefs--especially of the hope in another
life--and that they seemed to sustain her. Most keenly did he recollect
the delicacy with which she had refrained from asking his opinion upon
them, lest it should trouble him not to be able to uphold or agree with
her; while, at the same time, she wished him to have the comfort of
remembering that she had drawn strength and calm, in these last hours,
from religious thoughts.

* * * * *

For they proved, indeed, to be the last hours. About three the morning
began to dawn, clear and rosy, with rich lights striking on the snow.
Suddenly Kitty sat up, disengaged herself from her wraps, and tottered
to her feet.

"I'll go back to my room," she said, in bewilderment. "I'd rather."

And as she clung to him, with a startled yet half-considering look, she
gazed round her, at the bright fire, the morning light, the chair from
which he had risen--his face.

He tried to dissuade her. But she would go. Her aspect, however, was
deathlike, and as he softly undid the doors, and half-helped,
half-carried her across the passage, he said to her that he must go and
waken