hen she contrasted the warmth
and softness of her own little bed with the hardness and coldness of
the one they had made up for him; and at last she could bear it no
longer. She sat up in bed and listened. She could hear by their
breathing that the other children were asleep, but she was not sure
about Mrs. Ellis. Very stealthily, therefore, she slipped out of bed,
and pulled off the clothes. She could only just clasp them in both
arms, but the nursery door was ajar, and she managed to open it with
her foot. It creaked noisily, and Beth waited, listening in suspense;
but nobody moved; so she slipped out into the passage. It was quite
dark there, and the floor felt very cold to her bare feet. She
stumbled down the passage, tripping over the bed-clothes as she went,
and dreading to be caught and stopped, but not afraid of anything
else. The door was open when she reached it, and there was a dim light
in the room. This was unexpected, and she paused to peep in before she
entered. Two candles were burning on a table at the foot of the bed.
Their flames flickered in a draught, and cast shadows on her father's
face, so that it seemed as if he moved and breathed again. Her mother
was kneeling beside the bed, with her face hidden on her husband's
breast, her left arm round him, while with the fingers of her right
hand she incessantly toyed with his hair. "Only last night," she was
saying, "only last night; oh, I cannot believe it!--perhaps I ought to
be glad--there will be no more pain for you--oh, my darling, I would
have given my life to save you a moment's pain--and I could do so
little--so little. Oh, if only you could come back to tell me that
your life had ever been the better for me, that I had not spoilt it
utterly, that I brought you some happiness." She raised her head and
looked into the tranquil face. The flickering shadows flitted across
it, but did not deceive her. She must ache on always for an answer
now--always, for ever. With a convulsive sob, she crawled up closer on
her knees, and laid her cheek beside his, but no tears came. She had
not wept at all that day.

Beth stood for a long time in the doorway, listening to her mother's
rambling talk, and watching her white fingers straying through her
father's hair. She hugged the bed-clothes close, but she had forgotten
why she came. She felt no cold; she held no thought; her whole being
was absorbed in the scene before her.

Presently, however, something that he