vibrating voice, or sat
silently stroking the emaciated hand, raising it every now and then to
her lips with a rush of that intense pitifulness which was to her the
most natural of all moods.

The doctor, whom she met there, said that this state of calm was very
possibly only transitory. The night had been passed in a succession of
paroxysms, and they were almost sure to return upon her, especially
as he could get her to swallow none of the sedatives which might have
carried her in unconsciousness past the fatal moment. She would
have none of them; he thought that she was determined to allow of no
encroachments on the troubled remnants of intelligence still left to
her; so the only thing to be done was to wait and see the result. 'I
will come tomorrow,' said Catherine briefly; 'for the day certainly,
longer if necessary.' She had long ago established her claim to be
treated seriously as a nurse, and Dr. Baker made no objection. '_If_ she
lives so long,' he said dubiously. 'The Backhouses and Mrs. Irwin (the
neighbor) shall be close at hand. I will come in the afternoon and try
to get her to take an opiate; but I can't give it to her by force, and
there is not the smallest chance of her consenting to it.'

All through Catherine's own struggle and pain during these two days
the image of the dying girl had lain at her heart. It served her as the
crucifix serves the Romanist; as she pressed it into her thought, it
recovered from time to time the failing forces of the will. Need life be
empty because self was left unsatisfied? Now, as she neared the hamlet,
the quality of her nature reasserted itself. The personal want tugging
at her senses, the personal soreness, the cry of resentful love, were
silenced. What place had they in the presence of this lonely agony of
death, this mystery, this opening beyond? The old heroic mood revived in
her. Her step grew swifter, her carriage more erect, and as she entered
the farm kitchen she felt herself once more ready in spirit for what lay
before her.

From the next room there came a succession of husky sibilant sounds, as
though someone were whispering hurriedly and continuously.

After her subdued greeting, she looked inquiringly at Jim.

'She's in a taaking way,' said Jim, who looked more attenuated and
his face more like a pink and white parchment than ever. 'She's been
knacking an' taaking a long while. She woau't know ye. Luke ye,' he
continued, dropping his voice as he opene