The hours wore on; the dying woman stirred uneasily now and then, whispering a word or phrase which related to her girlhood--never to her later life. Once she said: "Mother, hold me. I'm so tired." Martha took the thin form in her arms, and, laying her head close beside the sunken cheek, sang, in half breath, a lullaby till the sufferer grew quiet again. The eastern moon passed over the house, leaving the room dark, and still the patient watcher sat beside the bed, listening to the slow breathing of the dying one. The cool air grew almost chill; the east began to lighten, and with the coming light the tide of life sank in the dying body. The head, hitherto restlessly turning, ceased to move. The eyes grew quiet and began to soften like a sleeper's. "How are you now, dear?" asked the watcher several times, bending over the bed, and bathing back the straying hair. "I'm tired--tired, mother--turn me," she murmured drowsily, with heavy lids drooping. Martha adjusted the pillows again, and turned the face to the wall. The poor, tortured, restless brain slowly stopped its grinding whirl, and the thin limbs, heavy with years of hopeless toil, straightened out in an endless sleep. Matilda Fletcher had found rest. UPON IMPULSE The seminary buildings stood not far from the low, lodgelike railway station, and a path led through a gap in the fence across the meadow. People were soberly converging toward its central building, as if proceeding to church. Among the people who alighted from the two o'clock train were Professor Blakesly and his wife and a tall, dark man whom they called Ware. Mrs. Blakesly was plump and pretty, plainly the mother of two or three children and the sovereign of a modest suburban cottage. Blakesly was as evidently a teacher; even the casual glances of the other visitors might discover the character of these people. Ware was not so easy to be read. His face was lean and brown, and his squarely clipped mustache gave him a stern look. His body was well rounded with muscle, and he walked alertly; his manner was direct and vigorous, manifestly of the open air. As they entered the meadow he paused and said with humorous irresolution, "I don't know what I am out here for." "To see the pretty girls, of course," said Mrs. Blakesly. "They may be plain, after all," he said. "They're always pretty at graduation time and at marriage," Blakesly interpreted. "Then there's the ice cream and cake," Mrs. Blakesly added. "Where do all these people come from?" Ware asked, looking about. "It's all farm land here." "They are the fathers, mothers, and brothers of the seminary girls. They come from everywhere. See the dear creatures about the door! Let's hurry along." "They do not interest me. I take off my hat to the beauty of the day, however." Ware had evidently come under protest, for he lingered in the daisied grass which was dappled with shadows and tinkling with bobolinks and catbirds.