“No, no!” cried the dying woman, again clutching Dora with fevered arms. “For what must I be quiet?--to live a little longer? I only want to live while she’s here. I only want it as long as I can see her--Dora, you’ll stay with me, you’ll stay with your poor--poor ----” “She shall stay as long as you want her: but for God’s sake think of something else, woman--think of where you’re going!” cried Miss Bethune harshly over Dora’s head. They disposed of her at their ease, talking over her head, bandying her about--she who was mistress of her own actions, who had never been made to stay where she did not wish to stay, or to go where she did not care to go. But Dora was silent even in the rebellion of her spirit. There was a something more strong than herself, which kept her there on her knees in the middle of the circle--all, as Miss Bethune had said, attending on the one who was dying, the one who was of the first interest, to whom even the queen would bow and defer if she were to come in here. Dora did not know what to say to a person in such a position. She approved, yet was angry that Miss Bethune should bid the poor lady think where she was going. She was frightened and excited, not knowing what dreadful change might take place, what alteration, before her very eyes. Her heart began to beat wildly against her breast; pity was in it, but fear too, which is masterful and obliterates other emotions: yet even that was kept in check by the overwhelming influence, the fascination of the chamber of death.