Denise herself was the calmest and cheerfulest of them all. Her high destiny had been to love Peter Champneys, and she had fulfilled it. The good, the kind God had given her that which in her estimation outweighed everything else. She had lived, she had loved. Now she could go, and go content. "It is better so," she told him, with that piercing good sense of the French which is like a spiritual insight. "Very dear one, suppose _I_ had been called upon to let _thee_ go: how could I have endured that?" And she added, pressing his fingers, "Do not grieve, my adored Pierre. Observe that I am but a poor little one to whom in thy goodness of heart thou hast been kind: but thou art all my life--all of me, Pierre." He put his head against her side, and she stroked it, whispering, "I had but a little while to stay, beloved. Because of thee, that stay has been happy--oh, very, very happy!" "You have given me all I ever had of youth and love," said Peter. "Ah, but I am glad!" she said naïvely. "Because of _that_, I think you must remember!" She looked at him with her blue eyes suddenly full of tears. "It is only when I think you may forget that I am afraid, it is then as if the dark pressed upon me," she said in a whisper sharp with pain. "I lie still and dream how great you will become, how much beloved--for who could fail to love you, Pierre? And I am glad. It rests my heart, which is all yours. But when I begin to remember how I have been but a little, little part of your life, who have been all of mine, when I think you may forget, then I am afraid, I am afraid!" And she looked at him like a frightened child who is being left alone to go to sleep in the dark. Peter picked her up, wrapped in the bedquilt, and held her in his arms. She was very light. It was as if he held a little ghost. She shook her bright hair over his shoulders and breast, and he hid his quivering face in it, as in a veil. Presently, in a soft voice: "Godfather!" "Yes, my little sweetheart." "Very dear and precious godfather,--a long, long time from now, when _She_ comes, She whom you will love as I love you, tell her about me." "Denise, Denise!" cried poor Peter, straining her to him. "Tell her I had blue eyes, and a fair face, and bright, bright hair, Godfather. She will like to know. Say, 'Her whole wisdom lay in loving me with all her heart--that poor Denise!' Then tell her that she cannot love you more, my Pierre,--but that in my grave I shall despise her if she dares to love you less." "I--Oh, my God!" strangled Peter, and he felt as if his heart were being wrenched out of his breast. He was in his twenties, and the girl in his arms was all he knew of love. Some six weeks later Denise died as quietly as she had lived, her small cold hands clinging to Peter Champneys's, her blue eyes with their untroubled, loving gaze fixed upon his face. When that beloved face faded from her the world itself had faded from Denise.