The flickering shadows flitted across it, but did not deceive her. She must ache on always for an answer now--always, for ever. With a convulsive sob, she crawled up closer on her knees, and laid her cheek beside his, but no tears came. She had not wept at all that day. Beth stood for a long time in the doorway, listening to her mother's rambling talk, and watching her white fingers straying through her father's hair. She hugged the bed-clothes close, but she had forgotten why she came. She felt no cold; she held no thought; her whole being was absorbed in the scene before her. Presently, however, something that her mother said aroused her--"Cold," she was murmuring, "so cold. How you dreaded it too! You were always delicate and suffering, yet you did more than the strongest men, for our sakes. You never spared yourself. What you undertook to do, you did like an honourable gentleman, neglecting nothing. You have died doing your duty, as you wished to die. You have been dying all these months--and I never suspected--I did not know--dying--killed by exposure--and anxiety--and bad food. You came home hungry, and you could not eat what I had to give you--cold, and I could not warm you--oh, the cruel, bitter cold!" Beth slipped up to her noiselessly. "Mamma!" Mrs. Caldwell started. Beth held out the blankets--"to cover him." Her mother caught her in her arms. "O my poor little child! my poor little child!" she cried; and then at last she burst into tears. * * * * * During the days that preceded her father's funeral, Beth did not miss him. It was as if he were somewhere else, that was all--away in the mountains--and was himself thinking, as Beth did continually, about the still, cold, smiling figure that reposed, serenely indifferent to them all, in his room upstairs. One day, what he had said about being laid out by old women came into her head, and she wondered what he would have looked like when they laid him out that he should have objected so strongly to their seeing him. She was near the death-chamber at the moment, and went in. No one was there, and she stood a long time looking at the figure on the bed. It was entirely covered, but she had only to lift the sheet and learn the secret. She turned it back from the placid face, then stopped, and whispered half in awe, half in interrogation, "Papa!" As she pronounced the word, the inhuman impulse passed and was forgotten. Hours later, Mrs. Ellis found her sitting beside him as she had so often done during his illness, on that same chair which was too high for her, her feet dangling, and her little hands folded in her lap, gazing at him with a face as placidly set, save for the eyes, as his own.