Then the ineffable smile came back. The two thin hands enveloped Dora’s wrist, holding her hand close between them; and again there came a wonderful interval--the dark room, the little stars of lights, the soft movements of the attendants gradually fixing themselves like a picture on Dora’s mind. Miss Bethune was behind in the dark, sitting bolt upright against the wall, and never moving. Shadowed by the curtains at the foot of the bed was some one with a white and anxious face, whom Dora had only seen in the cheerful light, and could scarcely identify as Harry Gordon. A doctor and the white-capped nurse were in front, the maid crying behind. It seemed to go on again and last for hours this strange scene--until there suddenly arose a little commotion and movement about the bed, Dora could not tell why. Her hand was liberated; the other figures came between her and the wan face on the pillow, and she found herself suddenly, swiftly swept away. She neither made any resistance nor yet moved of her own will, and scarcely knew what was happening until she felt the fresh night air on her face, and found herself in a carriage, with Harry Gordon’s face, very grave and white, at the window. “You will come to me in the morning and let me know the arrangements,” Miss Bethune said, in a low voice. “Yes, I will come; and thank you, thank you a thousand times for bringing her,” he said. They all talked of Dora as if she were a thing, as if she had nothing to do with herself. Her mind was roused by the motion, by the air blowing in her face. “What has happened? What has happened?” she asked as they drove away. “Will she be up yonder already, beyond that shining sky? Will she know as she is known? Will she be satisfied with His likeness, and be like Him, seeing Him as He is?” said Miss Bethune, looking up at the stars, with her eyes full of big tears. “Oh, tell me,” cried Dora, “what has happened?” with a sob of excitement; for whether she was sorry, or only awe-stricken, she did not know. “Just everything has happened that can happen to a woman here. She has got safe away out of it all; and there are few, few at my time of life, that would not be thankful to be like her--out of it all: though it may be a great thought to go.” “Do you mean that the lady is dead?” Dora asked in a voice of awe. “She is dead, as we say; and content, having had her heart’s desire.” “Was that me?” cried Dora, humbled by a great wonder. “Me? Why should she have wanted me so much as that, and not to let me go?” “Oh, child, I know no more than you, and yet I know well, well! Because she was your mother, and you were all she had in the world.” “My mother’s sister,” said Dora, with childish sternness; “and,” she added after a moment, “not my father’s friend.” “Oh, hard life and hard judgment!” cried Miss Bethune. “Your mother’s own self, a poor martyr: except that at the last she has had, what not every woman has, for a little moment, her heart’s desire!” CHAPTER XVII.