cold. Mark came to
the bed on tiptoe.

"Mother," Catherine said, "William Foster"--Mark started--"is here. Tell
him--tell him."

There was no reply from the bed.

"Kitty," Mark whispered, "what is this?"

"Hush!" she said. "Mother--mother, don't you hear me?"

Again there was no reply. Then Catherine bent down and cast a hard,
staring glance of enquiry on her mother.

Mrs. Ardagh was dead.

Catherine looked up at Mark.

"God's other means," she thought.

* * * * *

The death of her mother left a strong and terrible impression upon
Catherine. She brooded over it continually and over Mrs. Ardagh's last
words. The last words of the dying often dwell in the memories of the
living. Faltering, feeble, sometimes apparently inconsequent, they
appear nevertheless prophetic, touched with the dignity of Eternal
truths. Lives have been moulded by such last words. Natures have been
diverted into new and curious paths. So it was now. For the future Mr.
Ardagh's influence had no force over his daughter. An influence from the
grave dominated her. Mr. Ardagh recognised the fact, shrugged his
shoulders and travelled. His philosophy taught him to accept the
inevitable with the fortitude of the Stoic. From henceforward the
Sirretts saw little of him. As to Mark, with his habitual tenderness he
set about consoling his wife for her loss. He was kindness itself.
Catherine seemed grateful, was indeed grateful to him. Nevertheless,
after the death of Mrs. Ardagh, something seemed to stand between her
and her husband, dividing them. Mark did not know what this was. For
some time he was unconscious of this thin veil dropped between them.
Even when he became aware of it he could not tell why it was there. He
strove to put it aside, but in vain. Then he strove not to see it, not
to think of it. He forgot it in his work. But Catherine always knew what
set her apart from her husband. It was that influence from the grave. It
was the memory of her mother's last words. She recognised them from the
first, blindly, as words of prophecy. Yet the days went by. "William
Foster" sat in his study in the Surrey home once more, while the spring
grew, imitative of last year's spring. And there was no sign from God.
Catherine never doubted that the dying woman had been inspired. She
never doubted that "William Foster" would be stayed, however tragically,
from working fresh evil in the world. Indeed she waited, as one ass