Bee, whose heart was beating almost as strongly as her mother’s, heard his measured step withdraw on the soft carpets with a sense of wild despair, as if the last hope was going from her. Her inexperienced imagination had leaped from complete ignorance and calm to the last possibilities of calamity. She had never seen death, and what if that awful presence were to come while she was alone, incapable of any struggle, of giving any help. She listened to the steps getting fainter in the distance with anguish and terror unspeakable. She clasped her mother’s hand tightly without knowing it. That only aid, the only man who could do anything, was going away--deserting them--leaving her alone in her ignorance to stand between her mother and death. Death! Every pulse sprang up and fluttered in mortal terror. And she was put there to be quiet--ready and steady, he had said--to look happy! Bee kept silent; kept sitting upon her chair; kept down her shriek after him with a superhuman effort. She could do no more. “Listen--he’s talking to Moulsey now,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “about me; they’re always--whispering, about me--telling the symptoms--and how I am. That is the worst of nurses----” “Mamma! Oh, don’t talk, don’t talk!” cried Bee; though she was more comforted than words can tell by the sound of her mother’s voice. “Whispering: can’t you hear them? About temperature--and things. I can bear talking--but whispering. Bee--don’t you hear ’em--whis--whispering----” “Oh, mamma,” cried Bee, “I love to hear you speak! But don’t, don’t, don’t, or they’ll make me go away.” “My baby,” said the mother, diverted in her wandering and weakness to a new subject, “my little thing! He said we were to go to sleep. Put your head there--and I’ll sing you--I’ll sing you--to sleep--little Bee, little Bee, poor little Bee!” CHAPTER II.