All through Catherine’s own struggle and pain during these two days the image of the dying girl had lain at her heart. It served her as the crucifix serves the Romanist; as she pressed it into her thought, it recovered from time to time the failing forces of the will. Need life be empty because self was left unsatisfied? Now, as she neared the hamlet, the quality of her nature reasserted itself. The personal want tugging at her senses, the personal soreness, the cry of resentful love, were silenced. What place had they in the presence of this lonely agony of death, this mystery, this opening beyond? The old heroic mood revived in her. Her step grew swifter, her carriage more erect, and as she entered the farm kitchen she felt herself once more ready in spirit for what lay before her. From the next room there came a succession of husky sibilant sounds, as though someone were whispering hurriedly and continuously. After her subdued greeting, she looked inquiringly at Jim. ‘She’s in a taaking way,’ said Jim, who looked more attenuated and his face more like a pink and white parchment than ever. ‘She’s been knacking an’ taaking a long while. She woau’t know ye. Luke ye,’ he continued, dropping his voice as he opened the ‘house’ door for her; ‘ef you want ayder ov oos, you just call oot--sharp! Mrs. Irwin, she’ll stay in wi’ ye--she’s not afeeard!’ The superstitious excitement which the looks and gestures of the old man expressed, touched Catherine’s imagination, and she entered the room with an inward shiver. Mary Backhouse lay raised high on her pillows, talking to herself or to imaginary other persons, with eyes wide open but vacant, and senses conscious of nothing but the dream-world in which the mind was wandering. Catherine sat softly down beside her, unnoticed, thankful for the chances of disease. If this delirium lasted till the ghost-hour--the time of twilight, that is to say, which would begin about half-past eight, and the duration of which would depend on the cloudiness of the evening--was over; or, better still, till midnight were past; the strain on the girl’s agonized senses might be relieved, and death come at last in softer, kinder guise. ‘Has she been long like this?’ she asked softly of the neighbor who sat quietly knitting by the evening light. The woman looked up and thought. ‘Ay!’ she said. ‘Aa came in at tea-time, an’ she’s been maistly taakin’ ivver sence!’