She did not cry out, nor summon help. She bent over him and closed his eyelids and straightened his form upon the pillow. A wonderful calmness had fallen on her. It was as if her own life had come to an end, and she should never feel sorrow more. So far from sorrowing, indeed, she was conscious of a strange joy. “He sees now,” she said to herself. “He is no longer feeble and blind. He has gone into the light of God, 'out of darkness into his marvellous light.’” But this exalted feeling could not last. As she gazed on her father’s face slowly taking the rigidity of death, a trembling seized Ida. She felt faint, helpless, forsaken. With one long, quivering sigh, she sank upon her knees beside the bed, still grasping the dead, cold hand. Then consciousness fled; and thus Marie found her when she came in the early morning to learn how the master was. CHAPTER XXII. FATHERLESS. IT was a wise thought of Marie’s to send the sad tidings to Mrs. Tregoning without delay. Despite the bitter weather, and the feeble health which required that she should guard herself from exposure to it, the widow lost no time in hastening to the child of her dearest friend, now fatherless as well as motherless. She found Ida lying on a couch in the drawing-room, looking white and fragile, like some delicate lily that a pitiless storm has swept to earth. She was quite calm. There were no tears in the eyes which were turned towards the window, through which stole a faint gleam of wintry sunshine penetrating the dull grey fog. Marie had wished to draw down the blinds, but Ida had prevented her. “Why should we sit in gloom because my father’s darkness is past?” she had asked. And Marie could not answer her. The child’s quiet, tearless sorrow touched Mrs. Tregoning deeply. She knew by sad experience with what a cruel wrench death sunders hearts that cling to each other, and the aching sorrow, the sense of utter loneliness, that must be borne by the one who is left behind. All her love and pity went out to Ida, and as she knelt beside the couch and folded her in a tender embrace, Ida was conscious of a faint dawning of comfort. She was not utterly forsaken. Human sympathy and human tenderness were still hers. “How good of you to come to me!” she murmured. “If I could have thought of anything, I should have said I wished for you. For you know—you can understand.” “I do indeed, my poor child; I know how you are feeling. Ida, you must let me be as a mother to you now, for indeed I have felt as if you belonged to me ever since the day I first saw you, my Ida’s child.” “You are very good,” faltered Ida, still shedding no tears. “And Marie is so good to me. Every one is good and kind, but—” “Yes, I know, my love; you cannot take comfort yet, though you are young, and you have consolations.”