If she had ever been restless, and from what they said I judged she must have been, it was over now, and she lay like one dead, never moving so much as an eyelid, or paying the slightest heed to what was passing around her. The Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan were never all together in the chamber now, though each came frequently, and Mrs. Trevyllan always cried out and asked, “Do you think she is any better? Will she live?” of the tall man who sat and watched the sick girl just as closely as I did, and who would sometimes answer, “God knows,” and again shake his head mournfully, as if there was no hope. How kind, and tender, and gentle he was—gentle, and tender, and kind as any woman—and I found myself wishing the girl could know he was there, and know how, when he was all alone, he kissed the pale little fingers, and smoothed the ruffled hair, and called so soft and low, “Norah, Norah! don’t you hear me? Don’t you know old Tom?” She did not hear; she did not know; and the pale fingers never stirred to the kiss he gave them, and only the breath from the parted lips told there still was life. How sorry I felt for them both, but sorriest I think, for the man, who seldom left the room, and sat always where he could see the white face on the pillow. “Dear little face! dear little girl! I cannot let her die. Please, God, spare her to me!” I heard him say once. Then there certainly was a fluttering of the eyelids—an effort like struggling back to life; and I think the girl in the bed wanted to tell the man in the chair that she heard him, and appreciated all his watchful care. But nature was too weak to rally, and after that one sign the sick girl lay quiet and motionless as ever, and only the ticking of the clock broke the deep silence of the room. I wondered did that ticking disturb her. It would have worried me, and I should have been forever repeating the monotonous one-two, one-two, which the pendulum seemed to be saying. Did my thought communicate itself to her the girl on my pillow, with a face like my face, and which yet was not mine? Perhaps, for she did at last move uneasily, and the pale lips whispered: “One-two, one-two! it keeps going on forever and ever, and makes me so tired. Stop it, Tom.” He knew what she meant, and the clock which had not run down in years was silenced at once, while Tom’s face grew bright and hopeful, for she had spoken, and called him by his name.