So Milly was dying. Joan's eyes were dry while her mother sobbed quietly in her chair. Milly was dying, going away, going away from Seabourne for ever and ever. Milly was dying, Milly might very soon be dead. Her brain cleared; she began to remember little incidents in their childhood, little quarrels, little escapades. Milly had broken a breakfast-cup one day and had not owned up; Milly had cried over her sums and had sometimes been cheeky to Elizabeth. Milly was dying. Where _was_ Elizabeth, why wasn't she here? She must find her at once and tell her that Milly was going to die, that Milly was as good as dead already. Elizabeth would be sorry; she had never really liked Milly, still, she would begin to like her now out of pity--people did that when someone was dying. She got up. "I'm going to the Rodneys'," she said. "Oh! don't leave me, don't leave me now, Joan," wailed Mrs. Ogden. "I must for a little while; try to stop crying, dearest, and go up to Milly. But bathe your eyes first, though; she oughtn't to see them looking red." Mrs. Ogden walked feebly to the door; she looked old and pinched, she looked more than her age. "Don't be long," she implored. 3 In the street, Joan saw one or two people she knew, and crossed over, in order to avoid them. It was hot and the sea glared fearfully; she could feel the sun beating down on her head, and putting up her hand found that she was hatless. She quickened her steps. Elizabeth was upstairs sorting clothes, they lay in little heaps on the bed and chairs; she looked up as Joan came in. "I'm thinking of having a jumble sale," she said, and then stopped. Joan sat down on a pile of nightgowns. "It's Milly--they say she's dying." Elizabeth caught her breath. "What _do_ you mean, Joan?" Joan told her all there was to tell, from the blood on the handkerchief that morning to the consultation in the afternoon. Elizabeth listened in shocked silence. At last she said: "It's awful, simply awful--and you were right all along." "Yes, I knew it; I don't know how." "Joan, make your mother let me help to do the nursing; I'm not a bad nurse, at least I don't think I am, and after all I'd be better than a stranger, for the child knows me." "They say she may live for some little time yet, but they can't be sure, she may die very soon. Are you quite certain you want to help, Elizabeth?" Elizabeth stared at her. So it had come to this: Joan was not sure that she would want to help in this extremity, was capable of supposing that she could stand aside while Joan took the whole burden on her own shoulders. Good God! how far apart they had drifted. "I shall come to Leaside and begin to-morrow," was all she said. 4