The room was not so dark as before, though it was night; a number of candles were shining in the farther corner near the bed, and the pale face on the pillow, the nostrils dark and widely opened with the panting breath, was in full light, turned towards the door. A nurse in her white apron and cap was near the bed, beside a maid whose anxious face was strangely contrasted with the calm of the professional person. These accessories Dora’s quick glance took in at once, while yet her attention was absorbed in the central figure, which she needed no further explanation to perceive had at once become the first object, the chief interest, to all near her. Dying! It was more than mere reigning, more than being great. To think that where she lay there she was going fast away into the most august presence, to the deepest wonders! Dora held her breath with awe. She never, save when her father was swimming for his life, and her thoughts were concentrated on the struggle with all the force of personal passion, as if it were she herself who was fighting against death, had seen any such sight before. “Is it Dora?” cried the patient. “Dora! Oh, my child, my child, have you come at last?” And then Dora found arms round her clutching her close, and felt with a strange awe, not unmingled with terror, the wild beating of a feverish heart, and the panting of a laborious breath. The wan face was pressed against hers. She felt herself held for a moment with extraordinary force, and kisses, tears, and always the beat of that troubled breathing, upon her cheek. Then the grasp relaxed reluctantly, because the sufferer could do no more. “Oh, gently, gently; do not wear yourself out. She is not going away. She has come to stay with you,” a soothing voice said. “That’s all I want--all I want in this world--what I came for,” gave forth the panting lips. Dora’s impulse was to cry, “No, no!” to rise up from her knees, upon which she had fallen unconsciously by the sick bed, to withdraw from it, and if possible get away altogether, terrified of that close vicinity: but partly what Miss Bethune had said, and partly natural feeling, the instinct of humanity, kept her in spite of herself where she was. The poor lady lay with her face intent upon Dora, stroking her hair and her forehead with those hot thin hands, beaming upon her with that ineffable smile which is the prerogative of the dying. “Oh, my little girl,” she said,--“my only one, my only one! Twelve years it is--twelve long years--and all the time thinking of this! When I’ve been ill,--and I’ve been very ill, Miller will tell you,--I’ve kept up, I’ve forced myself to be better for this--for this!” “You will wear yourself out, ma’am,” said the nurse. “You must not talk, you must be quiet, or I shall have to send the young lady away.”