The voice sank to a lower whisper as in the old days behind the screen, and Frances, seated in a low chair beside the bed, tried not to strain her ears to listen. She wished the two girls would leave the adjoining room and go to bed, but they had been placed there by Dolly while she snatched a brief rest, and she did not like to intervene. So she sat there motionless, watching a great moth that had come in from the night and was fluttering round and round the ceiling in the arc of light cast upwards by the shaded lamp at her side, and listening to Lucy’s fitful sobbing in the other room and Nell’s somewhat rough and ready efforts to comfort her. The very thought of tears seemed out of place in that quiet room, for Ruth was as still and as peaceful as an effigy upon a tomb. She was not asleep; of that Frances was fully convinced. But she was utterly at rest, content so long as her friend remained beside her to lie in that trance-like repose and wait. The soft night air blew softly in upon them, laden with the scent of the moors. The magic of it went to Frances’ inmost soul. She felt as if in some fashion the message of which the child had spoken was being wafted in from those star-lit spaces, but as yet it had no words. Only the burden of it was already in her heart. A long time passed thus; then there came a movement in the adjoining room. The whispering was renewed for a moment, and ceased. The white-haired mother entered, and as before, Ruth spoke. “My dear Granny!” she said softly. Mrs. Dermot motioned to Frances not to move. She came to the other side of the bed and knelt down. “Shall we say our prayers, darling?” she said. Abruptly Frances realized that someone else had entered also, though she had heard no sound, and looking up she saw Arthur standing just within the doorway between the two rooms. He stood there motionless until his mother began to murmur the Lord’s Prayer, then noiselessly he crept forward and knelt close to the foot of the bed. It came to Frances then, and she never questioned the impulse, to slip to her knees beside him. And in the hush of that quiet room, she prayed as she never prayed before. Mrs. Dermot’s gentle voice went unfaltering on to the evening hymn. “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide, When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O, abide with me.” Verse after verse very softly she repeated to the dying child, and at the last Ruth’s voice joined hers, low and monotonous, murmuring the words. “Hold Thou Thy Cross before my closing eyes, Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies, Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee, In life—in death—O Lord, abide with me.”