"But I shall have saved my Ralphie."

"No, no; you will not."

"Will he not be saved, Greta?"

"Only our heavenly Father knows."

"Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best."

Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not
allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal
love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy
regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost
it the future must be a blank.

The day wore slowly on, and the child sunk and sunk. At evening the old
charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment,
and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes
opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its
palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand.

The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard.

"It were a winsome wee thing," he said, faintly, and then turned away.

He left his supper untouched and went into the porch. There he sat on a
bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head
of the Eel Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; the bald top of
Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle
breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its
multitudinous tongues in the field below. The dog lay at the
charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a
buzzing fly.

The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing
cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy
lifted the child from the bed and sat with it before the fire. Greta saw
its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move slightly,
but she heard nothing.

"He is calling his mamma," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the
child's mouth.

There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her
breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her.

Greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but
again she heard no sound.

"He is calling his mamma," repeated Mercy, wistfully, "and, oh, he seems
such a long way off!"

Once again the little lips moved.

"He is calling me," said Mercy, listening intently; and she grew
restless and excited. "He is going away. I can hear him. He is far off.
Ralphie, Ralphie!" She had lifted the child up to her face. "Ralphie,