She did not leave Phil’s couch under any distinct impression of approaching death. What had passed between the two children was not sufficient to make Winnie think she was going to die; but the talk with the sick boy had put new thoughts into her head, made plain some puzzling questions which had troubled her before, and given her food for much meditation. The sense of approaching change seemed to overshadow her more and more as days passed on. Nobody spoke to her of any journey, and yet something in Winnie’s heart seemed to tell her every day that she was going away--that a time would soon come when she would have to say good-bye to those around her, and go, she knew not whither. She watched the swallows with an ever-increasing interest, for were they not going too before very long? They, too, were feeling as she was feeling, that some power stronger than themselves was working within them, and would in time urge them to the last flight. They would have to go when they were bidden, and they would obey the voiceless call without a murmur and without a fear, and why should she not do the same? “They don’t know where they are going, and I don’t know where I am going,” mused the child sometimes. “They don’t know the way, and I don’t know the way. But they aren’t afraid to go. They know that something will show them the way, and will take them to a nice place where they can be happy. I don’t see why I need be afraid either. Mamma knows where I am going, I think. She will take care of me; and God knows too, and He will take care of me. I think it must be God who takes care of the swallows and shows them where to go. If He is so kind to the birds, He is sure not to forget me. I don’t see why we need ever be afraid of anything, because He can always take care of us.” But in the midst of new thoughts Winifred did not forget the old wish, to do things for other people, and make herself of use. She took the boys’ play-room under her special care. She looked after their toys, their books, and all those nameless treasures which a housemaid despises, and destroys, but which she could appreciate and care for. She let them come to her now with all their stories, either of sorrow or joy, and was always ready with sympathy or congratulation. She mended their gloves, and sewed on refractory buttons, and never sent them out of the nursery because their noise made her head ache. Charley and Ronald were affectionate boys, and very fond of their little sister. Now that she had begun to be interested in their affairs, and to encourage their attentions, it seemed as if they could not make enough of her, and a very happy nursery party was always to be found round the fire each evening, the brothers chattering away to Winnie of all the day’s adventures, she listening with unfeigned interest, and more often than not working with her active little fingers at some light task in their service.