e.

"I am glad he is not here," she said slowly. "I do not want him to have
pain."

"But perhaps, Mrs. Denison, you will be much better in a day or two, and
able to welcome him when he comes back."

"No, I shall not be here when he comes back, and it is just as it should
be. I asked him to turn round as he left the garden, and I could see
him, oh, so well! He looked kind and so beautiful, and he waved to me
his hand. Now he will come back, and he will be sad. He did not want
to leave me, but the governor sent for him. He will be sad, and he will
remember that I loved him, and some day he will be glad again." She
smiled into the troubled face near her.

The girl stroked the thick dark hair lovingly.

"Don't," she implored; "it hurts me. You are better to-night, and the
children are coming in." Mrs. Denison closed her eyes, and with her left
hand she covered her face.

"No, not the children," she whispered, "not my darlings. I cannot bear
it. I must see them no more." She pressed her companion's hand with a
sudden close pressure. "But you will help them, Alice; you will make
them English like you--like him. We will not pretend to-night; it is not
long that I shall speak to you. I ask you to promise me to help them to
be English."

"Dear," the girl urged, "they are such a delicious mixture of England
and New Zealand--prettier, sweeter than any mere English child could
ever be. They are enchanting."

But into the dying woman's eyes leaped an eager flame.

"They must all be English, no Maori!" she cried. A violent fit of
coughing interrupted her, and when the paroxysm was over she was
too exhausted to speak. The English nurse, Mrs. Bentley, an elderly
Yorkshire woman, who had been with Mrs. Denison since her first baby
came six years ago, and who had, in fact, been Horace Denison's own
nurse-maid, came in and sent the agitated girl into the garden. "For you
haven't had a breath of fresh air to-day," she said.

At the door Alice turned. The large eyes were resting upon her with an
intent and solemn regard, in which lay a message. "What was it?" she
thought, as she passed through the wide hall sweet with flowers. "She
wanted to say something; I am sure she did. To-morrow I will ask her."
But before the morrow came she knew. Mrs. Dennison had said _good-bye_.

The funeral was over. Mr. Denison, who had looked unaccountably ill and
weary for months, had been sent home by Mr. Danby for at least a year's
change and r