"How patient he is," she said. "He can't say 'Thank you,' but I'm sure his eyes are speaking. Let me feel." She put her finger lightly on the child's lids. "No, they are shut; he must be sleeping. Oh, dear, he sleeps very much. Is he gaining color? How quiet he is. If he would only say, 'Mama!' How I wish I could see him!" She was very quiet for a while, and then plucked at Greta's gown suddenly. "Greta," she said eagerly, "something tells me that if I could only see Ralphie I should save him." Greta started up in terror. "No, no, no; you must not think of it," she said. "But something whispered it. It must have been God himself. You know we ought to obey God always." "Mercy, it was not God who said that. It was your own heart. You must not heed it." "I'm sure it was God," said Mercy. "And I heard it quite plain." "Mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. Think what it is you wish to do. If you do it you will be blind forever." "But I shall have saved my Ralphie." "No, no; you will not." "Will he not be saved, Greta?" "Only our heavenly Father knows." "Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best." Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost it the future must be a blank. The day wore slowly on, and the child sank and sank. At evening the old charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand. The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard. "It were a winsome wee thing," he said faintly, and then turned away. He left his supper untouched, and went into the porch. There he sat on a bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head of the Eal Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; only the bald top of Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its multitudinous tongues in a field below. The dog lay at the charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a buzzing fly. The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy lifted the child from the bed, and sat with it before the fire. Greta saw its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move slightly, but she heard nothing. "He is calling his mama," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the child's mouth. There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her.