"Give me my child," she said at length, and then, as she took Meg to her breast and kissed her, she wept bitterly. "God bless you, my darling," she sobbed; "think of me with pity. Eugénie, never--never let her know what I was. Let her believe me to have been a good woman. If I have sinned, see how I was tempted--see how I have suffered--let my child think her mother was a good woman." Eugénie, crying bitterly, promised this, and then tried to take Meg away. "Mumsey," said Meg, clinging to her mother, "why do you cry? Where are you going?" "I'm dying, Meg, darling." "Dying!" said Meg, to whom the word conveyed no idea, "dying!" "Yes, dear; going away." "I'll go, too." "No, dear, no. You must stay here, and be a good girl. Mumsey is going far away--to the sky," finished poor Kitty, in a faltering voice. "To the sky--then you'll see God," said Meg. At this Kitty could bear no more, but burst into tears, and Meg was taken out of the room, being pacified with difficulty. Then Keith entered with the clergyman, who was left alone with the dying woman for some time. When they all returned, they saw she was sinking rapidly, but she smiled faintly as Eugénie approached. "I've told him all," she said in a low voice, "and he says God will forgive me." "I'm sure He will, dear," said Eugénie in a faltering voice. "Strange," said the dying woman, in a dreamy voice, "I, who never cared for religion, should want it now. I'm glad to die, for there was nothing to live for; but this terrible Death--I fear it. I don't know where I'm going--where am I going?" she asked piteously. "To Heaven, dear," said Eugénie. "Heaven!" repeated Kitty, her memory going back to her childhood; "that is where there is neither sun nor moon--the glory of God is there. Oh, I'll never go there--never--never!" The room w T as now filled with floating shadows, and all present were kneeling by the bed. Meg, who had been brought back, and held by Eugénie, was beside her mother, awed by the solemnity of the scene. A pale shaft of clear light came through the window, and shone on the disordered white clothes of the bed and the still face of the dying woman. No sound save the sighing of the wind outside, the sobs of Eugénie, and the grave tones of the clergyman's voice, reading the Sermon on the Mount, which in former days had been a great favourite with Kitty. "_Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God_." Poor soul, she that had not been pure was now dying, and dreaded lest her impurity should be brought up against her. "_Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy_." Ah, Kitty Marchurst, what mercy did you ever show? The inward voice came to her like an accusing spirit, and she shrank back in the bed. Then she opened her eyes. "I would have been a good woman," she said pathetically; "but I--I was so young when I met Gaston." Her voice became inarticulate, and with an effort she kissed her child, while the clergyman said the Lord's Prayer.