the bed.

"Yes, mother."

"Come here, dear, let me look at you."

Winifred went and sat beside her where they could look into each
other's faces.

"Dear, do you think I am very ill? Does the doctor say so?"

"He has not said much, mother. But he is taking every care."

"Yes, I see. What do you think, child?"

"I do not know, mother. But we hope you are getting on as well as
possible."

"Winnie," said she again, and her voice came with difficulty, "I think
I am very ill. I have had sickness before, but not like this. Things
seem slipping away."

Winifred's eyes filled with tears, but she forced them back. "Do not
think that, mother," she pleaded.

"They are all slipping away," insisted the sick woman. "Every
one--father, Hubert, you--everyone--everything I know--all slipping
away."

Winifred looked to her invisible Companion in an agony of entreaty for
her mother. Presently Mrs. Gray's voice again arose plaintively from
the pillow:

"I am afraid--I am afraid, Winnie. I don't know--the things ahead!
These,"--and her poor hands closed themselves over the counterpane as
though they would try to hold the tangible, known things--"are slipping
away, and I--am afraid."

"God never slips away," whispered Winifred.

"No?" queried the mother. "But I--can't--see Him! I don't--know Him."

So the secret, before unconfessed and unrealized, came out at last.
She did not know Him. The church, the service, the minister,--the
external routine of a nominally Christian life, all was slipping away
into a mist of past that could not be retained. And now the soul
stood, a terror-stricken stranger, before the things not known.

"I am afraid," repeated the faint voice.

Winifred longed for words of comfort, but they did not seem at hand.

The white-robed nurse came into the room with a little air of
professional authority. "I think our patient should not talk any more
just now," she said, and Winifred retired.

She met Hubert in the hall and drew him to her own little sitting-room,
where they pleaded with God together for the eternal comfort of the
beloved sufferer.

Evening came and Winifred was again by her mother's side.

"Winifred," said the gentle voice, stronger to-night for the increased
fever.

"Yes, dear mother?"

"Winnie, dear, would you be afraid if--if you were ill--like me?--if
you were going to--"

"To die," she was about to say, but she could not speak the word. She
shivered inste