Gwen, in obedience to her promise to take care of herself, always chose this particular walk, bathing herself in the sunlight and drinking in great draughts of the sweet clear air that came across a heathy hill in the distance, and trying to gather up shreds of happy thought to feed her loneliness with, and to soothe the vague aching that seemed to have made its home in her. “Mary,” said Mrs. Waring suddenly,—her husband had been literally dragged out for a drive by the old doctor—“will you call Gwen, but first give me that tonic. I feel as if I would slip away in spite of myself, and I know,” she murmured softly to herself, “there is something I ought to say.—Are her eyes still sealed as she walks there communing with her own sad heart?” she thought as she looked out at Gwen. “Will love never touch her—never? Will the child’s life open the gate—or—must it be the death of that little child?” She shivered down into the bedclothes, and shut her eyes. “Ma’am, dear heart, drink this,” said Mary, softly raising her, and with a great leap of her heart she saw death on the white face, “drink it, my dearie,” she repeated returning unconsciously to the old term of thirty-nine years ago, and kissing the little furrows between the brows. “You are very young, dearie,” she said, softly stroking her hair, “not fit to be a grandmother!” A soft pink flush crept into her cheeks. “Will you please call Gwen?” she murmured. When Gwen came in, her mother’s eyes were closed and her face like marble. The girl shivered and half turned; a horrible inclination to fly took hold of her, but she drove back her cowardice and came swiftly up to the bed, one of her full sleeves touched it, and she drew it away. Her mother’s eyes opened just in time to see her little action, she shivered, and Gwen’s heart began to ache in a new spot. “It all seems so hopeless,” she thought, “it is so terrible to hurt her, so pitiless, and underbred.” She stooped over her, a tress of hair escaped from her coil and fell on Mrs. Waring’s cheek. Neither of them touched it for a minute. The mother felt a sudden longing to ruffle it softly as she had once done to a village baby’s, and to feel the soft silkiness slip through her fingers, but she restrained herself and only breathed a little quicker. “You want me, mother?” said Gwen gently, lifting up her head and fastening up her hair. “Yes, I want you, dear.” She closed her eyes and rested. Gwen moved uneasily, the stillness oppressed her, and some change in the sick woman’s face made her heart feel tight. Presently Mrs. Waring drew a long breath and threw off some of the clothes feebly. “They are so heavy,” she said. Mary lifted her higher on the pillows. “Yes, that’s better, thank you, and now, Mary, go and rest. My daughter will stay with me.”