"For the love of God, child, don't make a noise there!" she breathed. "He lies so quiet; tread soft, my dear--tread very soft!" So they faced each other outside the door of the locked room--the white-faced child and the woman who wept and wrung her hands. And for a long moment, nothing was said. "He's in there; I know it," whispered Moira. "You needn't think I'm afraid; and I shan't cry out. Let me go in!" "No--no--dearie----" "I will! I'll beat down the door if you don't let me in!" came the tense whisper. She had not looked on death before; and this was not what she had expected. For this was the Old Paul that she had loved, lying asleep, with a smile on his lips, and that smile for her. He was gone; but sorrow was too mean a thing, in the ordinary sense, for him now. Child though she was, she knew that at the last he had written of her; that one little phrase, "beloved of my heart--now and always," lay warm against her heart even now, and comforted her. He had gone to that last sleep thinking of her; and nothing in that sleep was terrible. It had been his creed always to teach her to be brave; he had not taught that in vain. The old woman, standing fearfully within the door watching her, understood for the first time what this child was; seemed to look for the first time upon a new being that surprised and held her silent and dried her tears. She saw the slim figure of the girl, with hands clasped at her breast, bend forward; wonderingly heard her speak. "Old Paul--it was kind of you," whispered the child. "I knew it always--that I was beloved of your heart; but it was sweet of you to remember to tell me." She came out quite firmly, and locked the door, and took the key; the amazed woman followed her downstairs; ventured at the foot of them to touch her on the arm. "You--you weren't afraid?" she breathed. Moira looked at her with raised eyebrows. "Afraid?--of Old Paul?" She turned away and went into his room. Nor did she break down when presently Mrs. Baffall came in, with raised hands and streaming eyes, to comfort her. This was no question of callousness. Old Paul had been everything to her in life, and he must, therefore, be everything to her in death, and always. Nor was it affectation; it was only what Old Paul would have wished--part of that fine, strong, smiling philosophy that had been the very fibre of the man himself. Truth to tell, the child was a little impatient of what she regarded as a mere parading of grief. Old Paul would never speak to her again, and in that only did her grief lay; but he had spoken to her at the last--to her specially; and in that was her exquisite comfort.