As her mother kissed, and bit, and mumbled over her hand, and half sang little quaint snatches of baby song, and took her pretty fingers one by one and told them with low silvery laughs “this little pig went to market and the other stayed at home!” and broke out into a louder ripple as “the little one cried queak!” her own baby “leapt in her womb” and the scales fell from her eyes and her heart melted within her, and the breast of her dying mother was as an open book to her; she could read all the love there and the remorse and the infinite sorrow. Gwen’s heart stopped and her breath refused to come—she would have died then. Her soul hovered shuddering on the threshold of life, but her baby stirred imperiously and pulled it back, and then a torrent of tears came to her help and left her with soft moist eyes, a child by her mother’s side. “Mother, oh, mother!” the infinite tenderness in her voice smote into her own heart, and made Mr. Waring rise quickly and wait trembling with fear and a great awe, “mother, oh my darling—speak—touch me—love me, your child, Gwen—!” “I will not let thee go unless thou bless me.” The picture involuntarily rose before Mr. Waring’s eyes as he murmured the words. “Speak to me once, mother—I know everything, now—everything—do you hear, darling?” But the mother still kissed and played with the trembling clinging fingers, and sang her soft old songs, and her eyes looked up full of sunny irresponsible happiness, and saw things of which we have not thought in our philosophy. “Mother, oh my mother!”—but still she babbled on, smiling. Mr. Waring came forward with bowed head, silent, in fearful reverence. It was not for him to speak or interfere, the ground whereon he stood was holy ground. “Mother, mother, mother!” The babbling had now grown drowsy and low, and Gwen had to bend close to catch it, then it ceased, and the mother lay very still. Gwen turned in terror and saw her father. “Help, help!” she cried, “she must speak—oh, God! she must!” Her father took her hand, and bending softly he took her mother’s, and held the two in his, and one soft shivering moan broke from him; then father and daughter stood in the palpitating silence and waited breathless, but the silence grew and spread like a net around them, crushing hearts, and the breathing of the woman grew less and less and her face whiter, and then a strong cry rent the veil of awful silence and Gwen fell forward as one dead on her mother’s breast. CHAPTER XXXIX “WAS ever grief like unto my grief!” has been the cry of each wrung heart throughout all ages—the truth is, there is a dreary family likeness among them all, and a horrible absence of originality.