"Aunt Anne," whispered Maggie once more and for the last time. Then she sat back on her seat again, her hands folded, staring straight in front of her. After that she did not know for how long she sat there in a state somewhere between dream and reality. The room, although it never lost its familiarity, grew uncouthly strange; shapes grey and dim seemed to move beneath the windows, humping their backs, spinning out into long limbs, hands and legs and gigantic fingers. The deadest hour of the night was come; the outside world seemed to press upon the house, the whole world cold, thick, damp, lifeless, like an animal slain and falling with its full weight, crushing everything beneath it. Perhaps she slept--she did not know. Martin seemed to be with her, and against them was Aunt Anne, her back against the door, her hands spread, refusing to let them pass. The room joined in the struggle, the floor slipped beneath their tread, the curtain swayed forward and caught them in its folds, the lamp flickered and flickered and flickered ... She was awake suddenly, quite acutely aware of danger. She rubbed her eyes, turned, and in the dim shadow saw her aunt sitting up in bed, her body drawn up to its intensest height, her hands pressing down, flat upon the bed. Her eyes stared as though they would break down all boundaries, but her lips trembled like the lips of a little child. "Aunt Anne, what is it?" Maggie whispered. "It's the pain--" Her voice was far away as though some one were speaking from the passage outside the door. "It's the pain ... I can't ... much more ..." Maggie remembered what Martha had told her about the drops. She found the little green bottle, saw the glass by the side of it. Suddenly she heard Aunt Anne: "Oh no ... Oh no! God I can't ... God, I can't ... I can't." Maggie bent over the bed; she put her hand behind her aunt's back and could feel the whole body quivering, the flesh damp beneath the night-dress. She steadied her, then put the glass to her lips. The cry was now a little whisper. "No more ... I can ... no more." Then more softly still: "Thy will, oh Lord. As thou wilt--Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed ... Hallowed ... Hallowed..." She sank down on to her pillows. "Is it better?" Maggie asked. Her aunt caught her hand. "You mustn't leave me. I shan't live long, but you must stay with me until I go. Promise me! Promise me!" "No, I can't promise," said Maggie. "You must stay. You must stay." "No I can't promise." Then suddenly kneeling down by the bed she put her hand on the other's arm: "Aunt Anne, I'll do anything for you--anything--to make you better--if I can help ... but not a promise, I can't promise." "Ah, but you will stay," Aunt Anne's whisper trembled with its certainty.