And, with am arm round each of them, Lois told them, in tender words, that God was calling their mother to Himself, and that very, very soon they must give her up. For a few minutes she let them weep on unrestrainedly, knowing well that it was best so. And then, with words of comfort, the elder sister, who in future would have to act a mother’s part, bade them think of the peace, and rest, and freedom from all pain that their loved one would soon be enjoying in the presence of her Saviour. As Lois talked thus, Elsa seemed not to think so much of her own sorrows, as of the gain that would be her mother’s, and her sobs grew less as she remembered the blessedness of those who die in Christ Jesus. But Olive, over whose turbulent young heart a perfect hurricane of doubt was sweeping, refused to be comforted, and wept on unrestrainedly. God was cruel, _cruel_ to take their mother away, and nothing Lois or Elsa said would persuade her otherwise. A hasty opening of the door startled them, and Dr. Franklyn, looking ten years older than when the twins left home, entered the room. "I hear that Olive and Elsa have come," he said. "Let them get undressed and go to their mother at once. Remember, girls, no scenes," he added severely, and was gone without another word. After hastily removing their hats, and vainly endeavouring by sponging their faces with cold water to obliterate the traces of emotion, the twins entered their mother’s room. If they had expected to see a vast difference in her, they were disappointed for only a very practised eye could tell that Mary Franklyn was nearing the gates of death. To the twins she looked much as usual, the bright flush upon her poor, thin face was so deceptive. She was quite conscious and free from pain, and lay with one hand in her husband’s watching for them. "My girlies," she murmured, and she feebly stroked their sunburnt faces, as they bent over her, and kissed her passionately. "I am so glad--you had--a nice holiday--before--this trouble--came. Don’t cry--my darlings--Jesus is--very precious--and He--will bring--all my dear ones--to me--some day." And then she stopped, for her breath was coming in quick, short pantings, and the pulse, upon which Dr. Franklyn had his finger, was only feebly fluttering. "Don’t exert yourself too much, my dear," he said tenderly, with anguish in his eyes. A radiant smile passed over the dying woman’s worn features, and she lay back, exhausted. "I will--rest--a little," she whispered. For she hoped to recover sufficient strength to speak a last word to these two of her children and Dick, who could not arrive for some hours. But it was not to be. The gentle sleep into which she presently fell, and which seemed as if it must be doing her good, deepened into that last, long, slumber that knows no awakening in this life, and Mary Franklyn passed into the presence of the King.