of a sick room. A step equally distinct,
though soft, not the noiseless step of a watcher, came in through the
outer room and to the bed. The women, who were standing a little apart,
gave a low, involuntary cry. It looked like health and youthful vigour
embodied which came sweeping into the dim room to the bedside of the
dying child. It was Bice, who had asked no leave, who fell on her knees
beside Lucy and stooped down her beautiful head, and kissed the hand
which lay on the baby's coverlet. "Oh, pardon me," she said, "I could
not keep away any longer. They kept me by force, or I would have come
long, long since. I have come to stay, that you may have some rest, for
I can nurse him--oh, with all my heart!"

She had said all this hurriedly in a breath before she looked at the
child. Now she turned her head to the little bed. Her countenance
underwent a sudden change. The colour forsook her cheeks, her lips
dropped apart. She turned round to the nurse with a low cry, with a
terrified question in her eyes.

"You see," said Lucy, speaking with a gasp as if in answer to some
previous argument, "she thinks so, too----" Then there was a terrible
pause. There seemed to come another "change," as the women said, over
the little face, out of which life ebbed at every breath. Lucy started
to her feet; she seized Bice's arm and raised her, which would have been
impossible in a less terrible crisis. "Go," she said; "Go, Bice, to your
father, and tell him to come, for my boy is dying Go--go!"

CHAPTER LI.

THE LAST CRISIS.

"Go to your father." Bice did not know what Lucy meant. The words
bewildered her beyond description, but she did not hesitate what to do.
She went downstairs to Sir Tom, who sat with his door opened and his
heart sinking in his bosom waiting to hear. There was no need for any
words. He followed her at once, almost as softly and as noiselessly as
she had come. And when they entered the dim room, where by this time
there was scarcely light enough for unaccustomed eyes to see, he went up
to Lucy and put his arms round her as she stood leaning on the little
bed. "My love," he said, "my love; we must be all in all to each other
now." His voice was choked and broken, but it did not reach Lucy's
heart. She put him away from her with an almost imperceptible movement.
"You have others," she said hoarsely; "I have nothing, nothing but him."
Just then the child stirred faintly in his bed, and first extending her