“You forget, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “How easy it looked for that saint in the picture. I always liked to watch the birds floating down on the wind, never moving their wings. That’s what seems no trouble, so easy; not too hot nor too cold, nor tiring, neither to the breath nor anything. I shouldn’t like to leave you. No--But then:” she added, with a smile, “I should not require to leave you. I’d--I’d--What was I saying? Moulsey, will you please give me some--more--” She held out her hand again for the glass which Moulsey had just put down. “It makes me strong--it makes me speak. I’m--sinking away again, Bee. Hold me--hold me tight. If I was to slip away--down--down--down to the cellars or somewhere.” The feeble laugh was dreadful for the listeners to hear. “Run,” cried Moulsey, in Bee’s ear, “the doctor--the doctor! in the library.” And then there was a strange phantasmagoria that seemed to fill the night, one scene melting into another. The doctor rousing from his doze, his measured step coming back; the little struggle round the bed; Moulsey giving place to the still darker shadow; the glow of Mrs. Kingsward’s flushed and feverish countenance between; then the quiet, and then again sleep--sleep broken by feeble movements, by the quick panting of the breath. “She’ll be easier now,” the doctor said. “You must go to bed, my dear young lady. Moulsey can manage for the rest of the night.” “Doctor,” said Bee, with something in her throat that stopped the words, “doctor--will she--must she? Oh, doctor, say that is not what it means? One of us, it would not matter, but mother--mother!” “It is not in our hands,” the doctor said. “It is not much we can do. Don’t look at me as if I were God. It is little, little I can do.” “They say,” cried poor Bee, “that you can do anything. It is when there is no doctor, no nurse that people---- Oh, my mother--my mother! Doctor, don’t let it be.” “You are but a child,” said the doctor, patting her kindly on the shoulder, “you’ve not forgotten how to say your prayers. That’s the only thing for you to do. Those that say such things of doctors know very little. We stand and look on. Say your prayers, little girl--if they do her no good, they’ll do you good. And now she’ll have a little sleep.” Bee caught him by the arm. “Sleep,” she said, looking at him suspiciously. “Sleep?” “Yes, sleep--that may give her strength for another day. Oh, ask no more, child. Life is not mine to give.”