w circles of wavering light over the coarse whitewash of
the roof and on the cards and faded photographs above the tiny
mantelpiece.

John crept up to the bed. The two women made a slight movement to let
him stand between them.

"Can't yer give her no brandy?" he asked, whispering.

Mary Anne Waller shook her head.

"Dr. Murch said we wer'n't to trouble her. She'll go when the light
comes--most like."

She was a little shrivelled woman with a singularly delicate mouth,
that quivered as she spoke. John and Eliza Bolderfield had never
thought much of her, though she was John's cousin. She was a widow,
and greatly "put upon" both by her children and her neighbours. Her
children were grown up, and settled--more or less--in the world, but
they still lived on her freely whenever it suited them; and in the
village generally she was reckoned but a poor creature.

However, when Eliza--originally a hard, strong woman--took to her bed
with incurable disease, Mary Anne Waller came in to help, and was
accepted. She did everything humbly; she even let Louisa order her
about. But before the end, Eliza had come to be restless when she was
not there.

Now, however, Eliza knew no more, and the little widow sat gazing at
her with the tears on her cheeks. John, too, felt his eyes wet.

But after half an hour, when there was still no change, he was turning
away to go back to bed, when the widow touched his arm.

"Won't yer give her a kiss, John?" she said timidly. "She wor a good
sister to you."

John, with a tremor, stooped, and clumsily did as he was told--the
first time in his life he had ever done so for Mary Anne. Then,
stepping as noiselessly as he could on his bare feet, he hurried away.
A man shares nothing of that yearning attraction which draws women to a
death-bed as such. Instead, John felt a sudden sickness at his heart.
He was thankful to find himself in his own room again, and thought with
dread of having to go back--for the end. In spite of his still
vigorous and stalwart body, he was often plagued with nervous fears and
fancies. And it was years now since he had seen death--he had,
indeed, carefully avoided seeing it.

Gradually, however, as he sat on the edge of his bed in the summer
dark, the new impression died away, and something habitual took its
place--that shielding, solacing thought, which was in truth all the
world to him, and was going to make up to him for Eliza's death, for
getting