John Ford came in at last. Poor old man! What it must have cost him not to go to her for fear of the excitement! How many times in the next few hours didn't I hear him come to the bottom of the stairs; his heavy wheezing, and sighing; and the forlorn tread of his feet going back! About eleven, just as I was going to bed, Mrs. Hopgood came to my door. “Will yu come, sir,” she said; “she's asking for yu. Naowt I can zay but what she will see yu; zeems crazy, don't it?” A tear trickled down the old lady's cheek. “Du 'ee come; 'twill du 'err 'arm mebbe, but I dunno—she'll fret else.” I slipped into the room. Lying back on her pillows, she was breathing quickly with half-closed eyes. There was nothing to show that she had wanted me, or even knew that I was there. The wick of the candle, set by the bedside, had been snuffed too short, and gave but a faint light; both window and door stood open, still there was no draught, and the feeble little flame burned quite still, casting a faint yellow stain on the ceiling like the refection from a buttercup held beneath a chin. These ceilings are far too low! Across the wide, squat window the apple branches fell in black stripes which never stirred. It was too dark to see things clearly. At the foot of the bed was a chest, and there Mrs. Hopgood had sat down, moving her lips as if in speech. Mingled with the half-musty smell of age; there were other scents, of mignonette, apples, and some sweet-smelling soap. The floor had no carpet, and there was not one single dark object except the violin, hanging from a nail over the bed. A little, round clock ticked solemnly. “Why won't you give me that stuff, Mums?” Pasiance said in a faint, sharp voice. “I want to sleep.” “Have you much pain?” I asked. “Of course I have; it's everywhere.” She turned her face towards me. “You thought I did it on purpose, but you're wrong. If I had, I'd have done it better than this. I wouldn't have this brutal pain.” She put her fingers over her eyes. “It's horrible to complain! Only it's so bad! But I won't again—promise.” She took the sleeping draught gratefully, making a face, like a child after a powder. “How long do you think it'll be before I can play again? Oh! I forgot—there are other things to think about.” She held out her hand to me. “Look at my ring. Married—isn't it funny? Ha, ha! Nobody will ever understand—that's funny too! Poor Gran! You see, there wasn't any reason—only me. That's the only reason I'm telling you now; Mums is there—but she doesn't count; why don't you count, Mums?” The fever was fighting against the draught; she had tossed the clothes back from her throat, and now and then raised one thin arm a little, as if it eased her; her eyes had grown large, and innocent like a child's; the candle, too, had flared, and was burning clearly.