Their father was as much mystified as they; but he was troubled in conscience, as if he had not spoken plainly enough, had not made it clear enough what “her state” was. She had not asked for the clergyman--she had not asked for anything. Was it necessary that he should speak again? There was one thing she had near her, but that so fantastic a thing!--a photograph--one of the quantities of such rubbish the girls and she had brought home--a woman wrapped in a mantle floating in the air. “Take that thing away,” he said to Moulsey. It irritated him to see a frivolous thing like that--a twopenny-halfpenny photograph--so near his wife’s bed. “Don’t take it away,” she said, in the whisper to which her voice had sunk; “it gives me such pleasure.” “Pleasure!” he cried; even to speak of pleasure was wrong at such a moment. And then he added, “Would you like me to read to you? Would you like to see--anyone?” “To see anyone? Whom should I wish to see but you, Edward, and the children?” “We haven’t been--so religious, my dear, as perhaps we ought,” stammered the anxious man. “If I sent for--Mr. Baldwin perhaps, to read the prayers for the sick and--and talk to you a little?” She looked at him with some wonder for a moment, and then she said, with a smile, “Yes, yes; by all means, Edward, if you like it.” “I shall certainly like it, my dearest; and it is right--it is what we should all wish to do at the----” He could not say at the last--he could not say when we are dying--it was too much for him; but certainly she must understand now. And he went away hurriedly to call the clergyman, that no more time might be lost. “Moulsey,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “have we come then quite--to the end now?” “Oh, ma’am! Oh, my dear lady!” Moulsey said. “My husband--seems to think so. It is a little hard--to leave them all. Where is Bee?” “I am here, mamma,” said a broken voice; and the mother’s hand was caught and held tight, as she liked it to be. “May Betty come too?” “Yes, let Betty come. It is you I want, not Mr. Baldwin.” “Mr. Baldwin is a good man, ma’am. He’ll be a comfort to them and to the Colonel.” “Yes, I suppose so; he will be a comfort to--your father. But I don’t want anyone. I haven’t done very much harm----” “No! oh, no, ma’am, none!” said Moulsey, while Betty, thrown on her knees by the bedside, tried to smother her sobs; and Bee, worn out and feeling as if she felt nothing, sat and held her mother’s hand. “But, then,” she said, “I’ve never, never, done any good.” “Oh! my dear lady, my dear lady! And all the poor people, and all the children.” “Hush! Moulsey. I never gave anything--not a bit of bread, not a shilling--but because I liked to do it. Never! oh, never from any good motive. I always liked to do it. It was my pleasure. It never cost me anything. I have done no good in my life. I just liked the poor children, that was all, and thought if they were my own---- Oh, Bee and Betty, try to be better women--different from me.”