"It was the most beautiful spring and summer that I think I ever remember, and we all went away to Etterick in April. It seemed that the sun and the fresh winds and the quiet of the hills must heal, and at first she did seem to improve. But it was only for a little. The dreaded fever returned, and every Monday, when your father came back from preaching in Glasgow, he knew her to be losing. She liked being out all the time, and our days were spent by the burnside or on the hills. We had an old pony and a low basket carriage which she found comfortable, and we sometimes drove by the banks of the Tweed until we came to some place which she liked specially, when we would lift her out into a nest of cushions and she could sit and listen to the voice of the Tweed as it slipped past. And we had lunch with us, and the boys fished, and you read aloud fairy-tales, and we were almost happy in spite of the cloud that covered us.... She had her 'well days' and her 'ill days,' but she never complained; indeed, I think her patience was almost the hardest thing to bear. One day she said to me, 'I'm talking to Whuppetie, Mother. I talk to God when I'm ill and to Whuppetie when I'm well.' The year before, her great joy had been to go to the water meadow, where the banks of the ditch were blue with forget-me-nots. I had always avoided the place in her illness, and she had never asked to be taken; but one day, when we were driving past, we heard the little Crichton girls say to their mother, 'Come after us when you're ready, Mummy; we're going down to the water meadow to get forget-me-nots.' Rosamund turned and looked at me, and there was such utter sadness in her eyes that my heart seemed as if it must break.... One very lovely day in June we had been out till quite late, for she wanted to see the sunset. It was so wonderful in its rose and gold and amethyst that Rosamund, looking with wistful eyes into the glory, said that she thought she could see the twelve gates, every gate a pearl. The beauty seemed to comfort her, but she said to me: 'Mother, if you could only go with me! If there are twelve gates, how shall I know which one to watch for you at?' ... Mark carried her up to bed that night, and you all sat about on the floor for a little, talking and laughing, and she smiled at you happily while she sipped her milk. It was a very hot night, and a corn-crake was calling in a hayfield near the window. Rosamund slept a little, and woke about three. I sponged her face and hands to cool her, and put lavender water on her pillows; the windows were wide open, but she seemed to be breathless. Her father heard us moving, and came in from the dressing-room, and Rosamund held out her hands to him. The dawn was beginning to break, and he said, 'The night has passed, darling; it is morning.' She nodded. 'There's that corn-crake corn-craking yet,' she said, and then she gave a little cry. I caught her in my arms, and her head fell on