She shook her head feebly, and looked wistfully at me. Her lips moved again. I guessed that she wanted me to sit beside her. I got a chair, placed it by the bedside, and sat down. She put out her hand, as if searching for something. I laid mine in it. She closed her fingers upon it and seemed satisfied. When I looked again, she was asleep and breathing quietly. I was afraid to take my hand from hers lest I should wake her. I laid my head on the side of the bed, and was soon fast asleep also. I was awaked by a noise in the room. It was Nannie laying the fire. When she saw me she gave a cry of terror. ‘Hush, Nannie!’ I said; ‘you will wake grannie:’ and as I spoke I rose, for I found my hand was free. ‘Oh, Master Willie!’ said Nannie, in a low voice; ‘how did you come here? You sent my heart into my mouth.’ ‘Swallow it again, Nannie,’ I answered, ‘and don’t tell auntie. I came to see grannie, and fell asleep. I’m rather cold. I’ll go to bed now. Auntie’s not up, is she? ‘No. It’s not time for anybody to be up yet.’ Nannie ought to have spent the night in grannie’s room, for it was her turn to watch; but finding her nicely asleep as she thought, she had slipped away for just an hour of comfort in bed. The hour had grown to three. When she returned the fire was out. When I came down to breakfast the solemn look upon my uncle’s face caused me a foreboding of change. ‘God has taken grannie away in the night, Willie,’ said he, holding the hand I had placed in his. ‘Is she dead?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Oh, then, you will let her go to her grave now, won’t you?’ I said--the recollection of her old grievance coming first in association with her death, and occasioning a more childish speech than belonged to my years. ‘Yes. She’ll get to her grave now,’ said my aunt, with a trembling in her voice I had never heard before. ‘No,’ objected my uncle. ‘Her body will go to the grave, but her soul will go to heaven.’ ‘Her soul!’ I said. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Dear me, Willie! don’t you know that?’ said my aunt. ‘Don’t you know you’ve got a soul as well as a body?’ ‘I’m sure _I_ haven’t,’ I returned. ‘What was grannie’s like?’ ‘That I can’t tell you,’ she answered. ‘Have you got one, auntie?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What is yours like then?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘But,’ I said, turning to my uncle, ‘if her body goes to the grave, and her soul to heaven, what’s to become of poor grannie--without either of them, you see?’ My uncle had been thinking while we talked. ‘That can’t be the way to represent the thing, Jane; it puzzles the child. No, Willie; grannie’s body goes to the grave, but grannie herself is gone to heaven. What people call her soul is just grannie herself.’ ‘Why don’t they say so, then?’