So Christine went on and told of the long hours when the dying woman lay with her baby clasped to her bosom, and her head pillowed on the strong arm of her maid, who held her thus until the darkness was passed and the early dawn of the mild spring morning began to creep into the room, when Margaret roused a little, and said: “It is almost over, Christine. I am going home to Jesus, whose arms are around me so that I am not afraid. Tell them at home I was so happy, and death had no terror for me. Tell them I seem to hear the children singing as they used to sing in the old church in Merrivale, and the summer wind blows in and out, and brings the perfume of the pond lilies with it, and the river flows on and on amid the green meadows—away—away—just as I am floating so quietly out upon the sea of eternity, where the lilies are fairer and sweeter than those which lift their white heads to the sunshine in the ponds of Merrivale. And now, Christine, place my baby so I can kiss her once more, for sight and strength have failed me.” The child’s face was lifted to the pale lips which kissed it tenderly, and then, just as the warm Italian sunshine lighted up the distant dome of St. Peter’s with a blaze of gold, and all over the great city, and far out upon the Campagna the morning was warm and bright, the young mother lay dead in the silent room, with only her servant and baby with her. There was a fresh burst of tears and sobs from Reinette as she listened to the story, and when it was ended she threw her arms around her nurse’s neck and nearly strangled her with kisses, as she said: “I can forgive you everything now that I know how good and true you were to my mother.” With something like a moan Christine freed herself from the girl, and went rapidly on: “I did not know just where your father was, for he was never long in the same place, and as we could not wait to hear from him, and I did not know what to do, strangers took the matter in hand and buried her in the Protestant grave-yard at Rome, where you father has never been since.” “And I?” Reinette said. “You took me to him?” “Yes, I took you to Chateau des Fleurs,” Christine replied, while her face grew scarlet and then turned ashen pale, and Queenie never dreamed of the chasm which she leaped in silence, or of the bitter remorse which brought those livid spots to the face of Christine, who did not look at her now, but shut her eyes and leaned wearily back in her chair. “I am so weak, and talking all this tires me so,” she said; but Reinette was not satisfied, and her next question was: “What did father say when he first saw me?” Christine did not reply to this, but sat with her hands locked together, and a look upon her face as if she was living over some painful scene. “Tell me; how did he act? What did he say?” Reinette repeated, and then, with a smile full of irony and bitterness Christine answered: “He _swore_ because you were not a boy!”