"Mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. Think what it is you wish to do. If you do it you will be blind forever." "But I shall have saved my Ralphie." "No, no; you will not." "Will he not be saved, Greta?" "Only our heavenly Father knows." "Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best." Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost it the future must be a blank. The day wore slowly on, and the child sunk and sunk. At evening the old charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment, and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand. The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard. "It were a winsome wee thing," he said, faintly, and then turned away. He left his supper untouched and went into the porch. There he sat on a bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head of the Eel Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; the bald top of Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its multitudinous tongues in the field below. The dog lay at the charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a buzzing fly. The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy lifted the child from the bed and sat with it before the fire. Greta saw its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move slightly, but she heard nothing. "He is calling his mamma," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the child's mouth. There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her. Greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but again she heard no sound. "He is calling his mamma," repeated Mercy, wistfully, "and, oh, he seems such a long way off!" Once again the little lips moved. "He is calling me," said Mercy, listening intently; and she grew restless and excited. "He is going away. I can hear him. He is far off. Ralphie, Ralphie!" She had lifted the child up to her face. "Ralphie, Ralphie!" she cried. "Give me the baby, Mercy," said Greta. But the mother clung to it with a convulsive grasp. "Ralphie, Ralphie, Ralphie!..." There was a sudden flash of some white thing. In an instant the bandage had fallen from Mercy's head, and she was peering down into the child's face with wild eyes. "Ralphie, Ralphie!... Hugh!" she cried.