“Oh, mamma,” was all that poor Bee could say. “Oh--let me alone, Moulsey--I want to talk a little. I’ve had such a good sleep, you said; sometimes--I want to talk, and Moulsey won’t let me--nor your father, and I have it all here,” she said, putting her hand to her heart, “or here,” laying it over her eyebrows, “and I never get it out. Let me talk, Moulsey--let me talk.” Bee, leaning forward, and Moulsey standing over her by the bedside, there was a pause. Their eyes, accustomed to the faint light, saw her eyes shining from the pillow, and the flush of her cheeks against the whiteness of the bed. Then, after a while, there came a little faint laugh, and, “What was I saying?” Mrs. Kingsward asked. “You look so big, Moulsey, like the shadows I used to throw on the wall to please the children. You always liked the rabbit best, Bee. Look!” She put up her hands as if to make that familiar play upon the wall. “But Moulsey,” she added, “is so big. She shuts out all the light, and what is Bee doing here at this hour of the night? Moulsey, send Miss Bee to bed.” “Oh, mother, let me stay. You were going to tell me something.” “Miss Bee, you must not make her talk.” “How like Moulsey!” said the invalid. “Make me talk! when I have wanted so much to talk. Bee, it’s horrid to go on in this silly ill way, when--when one has children to think of. Your father’s always good--but a man often doesn’t understand. About you, now--if I had been a little stronger, it might have been different. What was it we heard? I don’t think it was true what we heard.” “Oh, mamma, don’t think of that, now.” “It is _so_ silly, always being ill! And there’s nothing really the matter. Ask the doctor. They all say there’s nothing really the matter. Your father--but then he doesn’t know how a woman feels. I feel as if I were sinking, sinking down through the bed and the floor and everything, away, I don’t know where. So silly, for nothing hurts me--I’ve no pain--except that I always want more air. If you were to open the window, Moulsey; and Bee, give me your hand and hold me fast, that I mayn’t sink away. It’s all quite silly, you know, to think so,” she added, with again a faint laugh. Bee’s eyes sought those of Moulsey with a terrified question in them; the great shadow only slightly shook its head. “Do you remember, Bee, the picture--we saw it in Italy, and I’ve got a photograph--where there is a saint lying so sweetly in the air, with angels holding her up? They’re flying with her through the blue sky--two at her head, and other two--and her mantle so wrapped round her, and she lying, oh! so easy, resting, though there’s nothing but the air and the angels. Do you remember, Bee?” “Yes, mamma. Oh, mamma, mamma!”