"She sent him up to heaven to school, On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, She sent him up to heaven to school On Christmas Day in the morning." "I would not have it otherwise, Peter," said Barbara, laying her hand on his. "You and I--we must go up to heaven to school." He said no more, and they went in, knowing that the first and last word, which would ever pass between them upon that which lay deepest in their hearts, had been spoken. CHAPTER XXV BARBARA COUNTS THE GOLD After many weeks of silence, the beck sang once more at the door of Greystones. The sound stole upon the ear so imperceptibly, with the slackening of the frost, that Barbara was unconscious of it, until its clear voice again filled the kitchen with its familiar song. The hour was midnight; a watery moon sent a faint light into the room, for the shutters were not up. A single candle burnt near the four-poster, and the fire had not been covered down for the night, after the usual custom of good housewives. The place had a waiting look as though someone was expected. Barbara lay on the settle, covered with a sheepskin, her long limbs sunk in an attitude of repose, but her eyes were open and her ears alert. The expected guest was death. In spite of the moon, fire, and candlelight, shadows lurked everywhere. Barbara's recumbent figure had the uniform greyness of an effigy in stone; the bridewain and the clock were vague; only the bed, with its curtains undrawn, retained any semblance of reality. Old Mistress Lynn lay high upon her pillows, her sharp, stern features lit by the candle burning beside her. She was asleep. For some time Barbara had spent her nights upon the settle. There had come no sudden change in her great-grandmother's condition; she sank slowly, getting weaker and weaker as the winter passed; and now, at the approach of spring, was slipping quietly away. Several of the village folk offered to share the girl's vigil, but their presence in the kitchen seemed to trouble the old woman, so Barbara kept watch alone. It was a quiet time. Neither pains of body nor distresses of mind disturbed the fleeting hours of that long and imperious life. She slept much and, when she was not asleep, watched her great-granddaughter with dreamy eyes. But she rarely spoke, and though no foreshadowing of death had laid a finger upon her lips, she seemed to be too weary to utter any more of the sayings, which she had been so fond of uttering in the past. To-night she breathed regularly, although deeply. So the moonlight and the firelight, mingling with each other into an unearthly glimmer, the shadows, and the singing beck, held the silence of the death-chamber undisturbed.