ny, unconscious, and breathing heavily. Beside
her sat the widow, Mary Anne Waller, and Louisa, motionless too, their
heads bent. There was an end of candle in a basin behind the bed, which
threw 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 wern'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