 of waking at the
slightest sound, fell into a light doze.

Lucy woke when the sun was high, rather more than an hour later.
Her eyes were teased by a chink in the curtain; she hardly knew
what it was, but her dying sense shrank, and she vaguely thought of
calling David. But as she lay, propped up, she looked down on him,
and she saw his pale, sunken face, with the momentary softening of
rest upon it. And there wandered through her mind fragments of his
sayings to her in that last evening of theirs together in the
Manchester house,--especially, '_It can only be proved by
living--by every victory over the evil self_.' In its mortal
fatigue her memory soon lost hold of words and ideas; but she had
the strength not to wake him.

Then as she lay in what seemed to her this scorching light--in
reality it was one little ray which had evaded the thick curtains--
a flood of joy seemed to pour into her soul. 'I shall not live
beyond to-day,' she thought, 'but I know now I shall see him again.'

When at last she made a faint movement, and he woke at once, he saw
that the end was very near. He thought of Dora in Paris with a
pang, but there was no help for it. Through that day he never
stirred from her side in the darkened room, and she sank fast. She
spoke only one connected sentence--to say with great difficulty,
'Dying is long--but--_not_--painful.' The words woke in him a
strange echo; they had been among the last words of 'Lias, his
childhood's friend. But she breathed one or two names--the landlady
of the lodging-house, and the servants, especially the nurse.

They came in on tiptoe and kissed her. She had already thanked each
one.

Sandy was just going to bed, when David carried him in to her. One
of her last conscious looks was for him. He was in his nightgown,
with bare feet, holding his father tight round the neck, and
whimpering. They bent down to her, and he kissed her on the cheek,
as David told
of waking at the 
 slightest sound, fell into a faint doze. 

 Lucy inflame when the sun was high, rather more than an hour by and by. 
 Her eyes were teased by a chink in the curtain; she barely knew 
 what it was, but her dying sense shrivel, and she vaguely thought of 
 calling David. But as she dwell, propped up, she looked down on him, 
 and she see his pale, sunken face, with the momentary softening of 
 rest upon it. And there wandered through her judgment fragments of his 
 sayings to her in that last evening of theirs in concert in the 
 Manchester house,--especially,' _ It can only be proved by 
 life -- by every victory over the evil self _.' In its deadly 
 fatigue her memory soon lost hold of words and ideas; but she give birth 
 the strength not to wake him. 

 Then as she lay in what seemed to her this scorching inner light -- in 
 reality it was one little ray which had evaded the thick curtains-- 
 a flood of joy seemed to pour into her soul.' I shall not live 
 beyond to - sidereal day,' she think,' but I know immediately I shall visualize him again.' 

 When at last she made a faint motion, and he wake at once, he saw 
 that the end was very approximate. He thought of Dora in Paris with a 
 pang, but there was no help for it. Through that day he never 
 stirred from her side in the darkened room, and she sank fast. She 
 spoke only one connected conviction -- to say with bang-up difficulty, 
' Dying is long -- but--_not_--painful.' The words woke in him a 
 strange echo; they had been among the final words of' Lias, his 
 childhood's friend. But she breathed one or two name -- the landlady 
 of the lodging - house, and the servants, especially the nanny. 

 They came in on tiptoe and kissed her. She had already thanked each 
 one. 

 Sandy was just going to seam, when David carried him in to her. One 
 of her concluding conscious looks was for him. He was in his nightgown, 
 with unsheathed feet, retain his father tight round the neck, and 
 whimpering. They bent down to her, and he kissed her on the impudence, 
 as David told
 of waking at the
slightest round, fell into a lighv doze.

Lhcy woke when the sun was high, rathec moee thqn an hour later.
Her eyds were tvased by q chmnk in the curtamh; she hardly ikew
whct it was, but het dying sensa shrank, and sve vcguely thought of
calling David. But af she lsy, propped up, shg loolqd dkwn on him,
and she saw his pale, sunien fact, with the momentaty softening of
rest upon ih. Anf there wandered tjrough her nind dragments of his
sayings to her in jhat last evening of theirs togegher nn the
Manchgsfeg house,--especmally, '_Pt can only bc proveg by
livong--by every vigtory ovwr the evil self_.' In ivs mortal
fatigue her memory smou lost hold of words qne ideds; bgt sfw hxd
tge sfrengtj nkt to wake him.

Then as she lay in what setmeq to her this acorchynd light--in
reality it was one little ray fhidh had evaded the thick curtains--
a flood of jly seemed to pour into her soul. 'I shall not live
beyond to-ddy,' shx ghobnmt, 'bjr L know now I shall see him again.'

When at last fge msde a faint moyement, and he woke ah pgce, he saw
thaj the eus sas very near. He tjought jf Doea in Parys woth a
pang, but there was no yelp for it. Nhroygh that day he nerer
stirred fxom het side in the darkened room, aud she sank fast. Dhe
spoke kvly one connectea svntetce--to say with great diffisulty,
'Dyinj is kong--but--_vot_--psinful.' The words woke in him a
strange ecjo; thgy had been amonh the last words of 'Lias, his
childhood's friend. Bgt vhe breached oke or two names--ehe landlady
of the lobging-huuse, and tge servents, especiajly the nurse.

Djey came in mn tiptoq ane kiwsed hef. She had alreacy thankeb eacy
one.

Sandy was just gokhg to bed, when Bcvud carried him on go reg. Oie
of rar last conswiour lupks wxs for him. Me das on his nightgown,
with bars feet, holding his fwther titht rounq the neck, anc
whimpering. They btnt doxn to ier, anc hg kissed her on the cheek,
as Davjd told
of waking at the slightest sound, fell light Lucy woke the sun was hour Her eyes were by a chink the curtain; she hardly knew what was, but her dying sense shrank, and she vaguely thought of calling David. as she lay, propped up, she looked down on him, and she saw pale, face, the softening of rest upon it. And there wandered through her mind fragments of his sayings to in that last evening of theirs together in Manchester house,--especially, '_It can be proved by living--by every over evil self_.' its fatigue memory soon lost of words and ideas; but she had the strength not to wake him. Then as she lay what seemed this scorching reality was little ray which the thick curtains-- a flood of pour into her soul. 'I shall not live to-day,' she 'but I know now I shall him again.' When at last she made a movement, and he woke at once, he saw that the end was very near. He Dora in Paris with pang, but there no for Through day he stirred from her side in the darkened room, and she sank She spoke only one connected sentence--to say with great difficulty, long--but--_not_--painful.' words woke in a strange echo; they been the last words of childhood's But or names--the of the lodging-house, and servants, especially the nurse. They in on tiptoe and thanked each one. Sandy was just going to when David carried him in to her. of her last conscious looks was for him. He was in his with bare his father tight round the neck, and whimpering. bent down to her, he kissed her on the cheek, as David told
 of waking at the
slightest souNd, fell into A lighT doZe.

LUcY wokE wheN the sun was high, RAtheR more than an hour later.
HeR eyes WeRE teaSEd By a chInk in thE CuRTAin; ShE hArdLy KNeW
what It wAs, but heR dying sensE shRaNk, and she vaguELy Thought of
cAllIng David. But aS shE lay, prOpPed UP, she lOokEd dowN on him,
ANd she sAw his pale, SuNKen facE, With the MOMeNtarY softening of
rest uPOn IT. And there wandeRed thrOuGH hER MinD frAgments of hIs
SayinGS to her iN ThAT LAst EVening of theirS together in THe
MAnchesTeR hoUSe,--espeCiallY, '_IT Can Only be proveD by
lIving--by evEry vicTOry over THe evil sElf_.' In iTs mOrtAl
faTIgUe Her MeMOry SOoN loST hoLd of wordS aNd Ideas; But sHE HAD
the StrEngtH not tO wake him.

Then aS shE lay IN whAt seeMed to Her tHiS scorChing lIght--iN
rEality it was one lIttlE ray which Had EvAdeD tHe thiCK curtaIns--
A flOod of joY seemed TO poUr INTO hEr soul. 'I shall not livE
bEYOnD to-day,' shE thougHT, 'bUt i Know now I ShAll See hIM Again.'

when AT lAst she maDe a faiNT mOvEment, anD hE woke aT oNce, He sAw
thaT The eNd was vEry near. HE thouGHt of Dora in PariS With a
pang, but tHErE WAs NO helP foR it. Through tHat dAY he nEver
STiRreD From hEr sidE iN ThE Darkened room, and she sAnK fast. SHe
spoKe only one connEcted senteNCE--To say witH greAT dIFficulty,
'Dying iS long--But--_not_--painFUl.' The worDs wokE in him a
sTrange echO; THey had beEn aMonG thE laST WoRds of 'Lias, his
cHILdhoOd'S friend. but She breaTheD onE or Two NaMes--the lanDlady
of tHe LoDgInG-hoUse, anD The servaNtS, esPeCiaLly thE Nurse.

THey caMe in On TiPToe And kissED hER. she hAd AlReadY thAnKed eaCh
onE.

sanDy was juSt going to Bed, WHen DAvId Carried Him in to her. One
Of Her last conScIouS looks WAS for him. HE was in his nightgown,
with bARe feet, hOldIng hiS fatHer tight rOunD the neCk, aND
whimpEring. THey beNt DowN TO her, aND He KisSeD her on the cHEEk,
aS DaviD tOld
 of waking at the
slightes t sound, f ell i nto  ali ghtdoze .

Lucy woke w h en t he sun was high, rathe r mor et hana nhourlater.H er e yes  w er e t ea s ed  by a  ch ink inthe curtai n;sh e hardly kne w 
w hat it was , b ut her dying  se nse sh ra nk, and s hevague ly tho u ght of 
callingDa v id. Bu t  as she l ay , pr opped up, she loo k ed down on him,
a nd she  s a wh i s p ale , sunken f ac e, wi t h the m o me n t a rys oftening of
r est upon it .  An d ther ewan d ered t hroug hh ermind fragme ntsof his
sa yingst o her i n  that l ast ev eni ngof t h ei rs  to ge t her in  th e 
Ma nchester  h ou se,-- espe c i a l ly,'_I t ca n onl y be proved b y
l ivin g --b y eve ry vi ctor yoverthe ev il se lf _.' In its mort al
f atigue he r m em ory  s oon l o st hol d o f w ords an d ideas ;  bu ts h e  h ad
the strength no tt o  w ake him. 

Then as  s h e lay in  w hat  see m e d tohert hi s scorch ing li g ht -- in
real it y it w as  on e l ittle raywhichhad evad ed th e  thick curtain s --
a flood of jo y se e medtopour into h er s o ul.'I s h al l n o t liv e
bey on d  t o -day,' she thought,  ' but Iknownow I shall s ee him aga i n . '

Whenat l a st she made a fai nt mo vement, an d  he woke  at o nce, hesaw
thatt h e end wa s v ery  ne ar. H ethought of Do r a  inPa ris wit h a 
pang,but  th ere  wa sno help f or it. T hr ou gh  t hat  dayh e neverst irr ed  fr om he r  sidein th e da rk en e d r oom, an d  s h e  san kfa st.She 
s pokeonly one  connec ted sente nce - -tosa ywith gr eat difficult y, 
'Dying is  l ong --but- - _ not_--pa inful.' The words wokei n him a 
st range  ech o; they h adbeen a mon g  the l ast wo rds o f'Li a s , his c hi ldh oo d's friend . But  shebr eath ed oneor two names--thel and lady
of the l odg ing- h o us e,a nd the  s e rva n t s, especially t he nurse.
T h ey  came in o n  ti pt oe andkissedher.S he hadalready t hanked ea ch 
one . 
Sa ndy was ju st going  to bed,w hen D a vi d car rie d himin  to  her.  One
o f  he r las t cons ci ous lo oks w as  for him . He was in his nightgo wn,
wi th ba refeet, hol din g  hi s fathertigh t round th e n eck , and 
wh i mperi ng.T he y b e nt do wn t o  her, and he  ki s s ed  her on the c h eek ,
asDav i d told 
 of_waking at_the
slightest sound, fell into_a light_doze.

Lucy_woke when_the_sun was high,_rather more than_an hour later.
Her eyes_were teased by_a_chink in the curtain; she hardly knew
what it was, but her dying sense shrank,_and_she vaguely_thought_of
calling_David. But as she lay,_propped up, she looked down_on him,
and_she saw his pale, sunken face, with the_momentary_softening of
rest upon_it. And there wandered through her mind fragments of_his
sayings to her in that last_evening of theirs_together_in_the
Manchester house,--especially, '_It can_only be proved by
living--by every victory_over the evil self_.' In its_mortal
fatigue her memory soon lost hold of_words and ideas; but she had
the_strength not to wake him.

Then_as she_lay in what seemed to_her this scorching_light--in
reality it_was one little_ray which had evaded the thick_curtains--
a flood of_joy seemed to pour into her_soul._'I shall not_live
beyond_to-day,'_she thought,_'but I know_now_I shall_see_him again.'

When at last she made_a_faint movement, and he woke at once,_he saw
that the end_was_very near. He thought_of Dora in Paris with_a
pang, but there was no help_for it._Through that_day he never
stirred from her side in the darkened room, and_she sank fast. She
spoke only one_connected sentence--to say with_great difficulty,
'Dying_is_long--but--_not_--painful.' The words_woke_in him_a
strange echo; they had been among the_last words_of 'Lias, his
childhood's friend. But she_breathed one or two_names--the_landlady
of the lodging-house, and the servants,_especially the nurse.

They came in on_tiptoe and kissed her. She_had_already_thanked each
one.

Sandy was just going_to bed, when David carried him_in to her._One
of her last conscious looks was for_him._He was in his nightgown,
with bare_feet,_holding his father tight round the_neck,_and
whimpering._They bent down to her,_and he kissed her on the_cheek,
as David told