“Give him my love!” said Ruth. “I shan’t see him again, but he is too old to mind, and I am not big enough to matter. Will you ask Uncle Arthur to come quite close to me just for a minute? I want—I want to tell him something.” Arthur rose from his knees and moved to the head of the bed. His arm went round his mother as he stooped to the child. “I am here, Ruth. What is it?” There came a little gasp from the bed. “Will you—hold my hand?” said Ruth. “I—can’t see you quite well yet. Thank you, Uncle Arthur. Now I can tell you. Do you remember that night I found my dear Miss Thorold—up by the Stones—when she was frightened—and lost?” “I remember,” he said. “I found her—for you,” said the child. “God sent me and I went. I brought her back to Tetherstones—for you. I told her it was home because you were here—because I knew—somehow—that you wanted her. You do want her, don’t you, Uncle Arthur?” “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said. “It does matter,” said Ruth very earnestly. “Because when people want each other and haven’t got each other they are very unhappy—same as you, Uncle Arthur. And I don’t think she’ll ever find that big thing by the Stones unless you help her. You see—you see—” again the child’s voice flagged, she seemed to seek for words—“You see, there is—someone else. And if—if anyone else helps her, p’raps they won’t find the real thing at all, but something—something quite different. Don’t you see, Uncle Arthur? Don’t you understand? It’s hidden, and you’ll have to hunt and hunt before you find it. I shall know when you find it. But I shan’t be able to tell you how pleased I am. I shall only—be able—to send you—my love.” The tired voice trailed off drowsily. Frances was anxiously watching the little white face on the pillow, but suddenly something drew her look upwards. She met the man’s eyes across the bed, and was conscious of a sense of shock. They were grim with a desperate endurance that pierced her like a cry. Though they met her own, they were fixed and desolate. Scarcely even did they seem to see her. Then again Ruth spoke with that soft thrill of gladness that made her think of the first faint call of a bird in the dawning. “My mother is waiting for me,” she said. “She is going to take me out to the stars. Do you mind if I go, dear Granny? I would like to go so much.” There was a brief pause. Then: “I don’t mind, my darling,” Mrs. Dermot answered very softly, and added as if to herself, “God knows best.” “I shall always be happy with my mother,” said little Ruth. “And when you come, we shall all be happy together.” She sank into silence again, and for a space no one moved or spoke. Frances realized that Ruth’s breathing was getting feebler, but there was no distress of any sort. Like the flame of a spent candle the little life was slowly flickering out.