Katharine clasped her hands together, as she lay on her side, and prayed fervently that she might die that day--at that very hour, if possible. It would be so very easy for God to let her die, she thought, since she was already so tired. Her heart had almost stopped beating, her hands were cold, and she felt numb, and weary, and miserable. The step was so short. She wondered whether it would hurt much if she took it herself, without waiting. There were things which made one go to sleep--without waking again. That must be very easy and quite, quite painless, she thought. She felt dizzy, and she closed her eyes again. How good it would be! All alone, in the old room, while the snow was falling softly outside. She should not mind the snow-glare any more then. It would not tire her eyes. That white smile--it came back to her at last, and she felt it on her own face. It was very strange that she should be smiling now--for she was so near crying--nearer than she thought, indeed, for as the delicate lips parted with the slow, sighing breath, the heavy lids--darkened as though they had been hurt--were softly swelling a little, and then very suddenly and quickly two great tears gathered and dropped and ran and lost themselves upon the pillow. Ah, how peaceful it would be--never to wake again, when the little step was passed! Perhaps, if she lay quite still, it would come. She had heard strange stories of people in the East, who let themselves die when they were weary. Surely, none of them had ever been as weary as she. Strange--she was always so strong! Every one used to say, ‘as strong as Katharine Lauderdale.’ If they could see her now! She wanted to open her eyes, but the snow-glare must be still in the room, and she could not bear it--and the shabby furniture. She would breathe more slowly. It seemed as though with each quiet sigh the lingering life might float away into that dear, peaceful beyond--where there would be no snow-glare and the furniture would not be shabby--if there were any furniture at all--beyond--or any John Ralston--no ‘marriage nor giving in marriage’--all alone in the old room-- Two more tears gathered, more slowly this time, though they dropped and lost themselves just where the first had fallen, and then, somehow, it all stopped, for what seemed like one blessed instant, and then there came a loud knocking, with a strange, involved dream of carpenters and boxes and a journey and being late for something, and more knocking, and her mother’s voice calling to her through the door. “Katharine, child! Wake up! Don’t forget that you’re to dine at the Van De Waters’ at eight! It’s half past six now!” It was quite dark, save for the flickering light thrown upon the ceiling from the gas-lamp below. Katharine started up from her long sleep, hardly realizing where she was. “All right, mother--I’m awake!” she answered sleepily.