About sunsetting David asked Barbara for food; and as she prepared it he sat by the open window, silent and stupefied, dominated by the somber inertia of hopeless sorrow. When he began to eat, Barbara took from a china jar two papers, and gave them to him. "I promised Nanna to put them into your hands," she said. [Illustration: ON THE WAY TO NANNA'S COTTAGE.] "When did she die?" "Last December, the fourteenth day." "Did you see her on that day?" "I was there early in the morning, for I saw there was snow to fall. She was dead at the noon hour." "You saw her go away?" "No; I was afraid of the storm. I left her at ten o'clock. She could not then speak, but she gave me the papers. We had talked of them before." "Then did she die alone?" "She did not. I went into the next cottage and told Christine Yell that it was the last hour with Nanna; and she said, 'I will go to her,' and so she did." "You should have stayed, mother." "My lad, the snow was already falling, and I had to hasten across the moor, as there was very good reason to do." Then David went out, and Barbara watched him take the road that led to Nanna's empty cottage. The door opened readily to the lifted latch, and he entered the forsaken room. The peat fire had long ago burned itself to ashes. The rose-plant, which had been Nanna's delight, had withered away on its little shelf by the window. But the neighbors had swept the floor and put the simple furniture in order. David drew the bolt across the door, and opened the papers which Nanna had left for him. The first was a bequest to him of the cottage and all within it; the second was but a little slip on which the dying woman had written her last sad messages to him: Oh, my love! my love! Farewell forever! I am come to the end of my life. I am going away, and I know not where to. All is dark. But I have cast myself at His feet, and said, "Thy will be done!" * * * * * I am still alive, David. I have been alone all night, and every breath has been a death-pang. How can His eternal purpose need my bitter suffering? Oh, that God would pity me! His will be done! * * * * * My love, it is nearly over. _I have seen Vala!_ At last it is peace--peace! His will be done! Mercy--mercy--mercy-- These pitiful despairs and farewells were written in a large, childish hand, and on a poor sheet of paper. David spread this paper upon Vala's couch, and, kneeling down, covered it with tears and kisses; but anon he lifted it up toward heaven, and prayed as men pray when they feel prayer to be an immediate and veritable thing--when they detain God, and clasp his feet, and cling to his robe, and will not let him go until he bless them.