“I am going up to see Mrs. Everard,” was her excuse.  “She is expecting me.”

And then Scott came, and she turned to him with eager welcome.  “Oh, please, will you take me to see Isabel?”

He gave her a straight, intent look, and led her out of the throng.

His hand rested upon her arm as they mounted the stairs and she thought he moved with deliberate slowness.  At the top he spoke.

“Dinah, before you see her I ought to prepare you for a change.  She has been losing ground lately.  She is not—­what she was.”

Dinah stopped short.  “Oh, Scott!” She said in breathless dismay.

His hand pressed upon her, but it seemed to be imparting strength rather than seeking it.  “I think I told you that day at the Dower House that she was nearing the end of her journey.  I don’t want to sadden you.  You mustn’t be sad.  But you couldn’t see her without knowing.  It won’t be quite yet; but it will be—­soon.”

He spoke with the utmost quietness; his face never varied.  His eyes with their steady comradeship looked straight into hers, stilling her distress.

“She is so tired,” he said gently.  “I don’t think it ought to grieve us that her rest is drawing near at last.  She has so longed for it, poor girl.”

“Oh, Scott!” Dinah said again, but she said it this time without consternation.  His steadfast strength had given her confidence.

“Shall we go to her?” he said.  “At least, I think it would be better if you went alone.  She is quite determined that nothing shall interfere with your coming happiness, so you mustn’t let her think you shocked or grieved.  I thought it best to prepare you, that’s all.”

He led her gravely along the passage, and presently stopped outside a closed door.  He knocked three times as of old, and Dinah stood waiting as one on the threshold of a holy place.

The door, was opened by Biddy, and he pressed her forward.  “Don’t stay long!” he said.  “She is very tired to-night, and Eustace will be wanting you.”

She squeezed his hand in answer and passed within.

Biddy’s wrinkled brown face smiled a brief welcome under its snowy cap.  She motioned her to approach.  “Ye’ll not stay long, Miss Dinah dear,” she whispered.  “The poor lamb’s very tired to-night.”

Dinah went forward.

The window was wide open, and the rush of the west wind filled the room.  Isabel was lying in bed with her face to the night, wide-eyed, intent, still as death.

Noiselessly Dinah drew near.  There was something in the atmosphere—­a ghostly, hovering presence—­that awed her.  In the sound of that racing wind she seemed to hear the beat of mighty wings.

She uttered no word, she was almost afraid to speak.  But when she reached the bed, when she bent and looked into Isabel’s face, she caught her breath in a gasping cry.  For she was shocked—­shocked unutterably—­by what she saw.  Shrivelled as the face of one who had come through fiery tortures, ashen-grey, with eyes in which the anguish of the burnt-out flame still lingered, eyes that were dead to hope, eyes that were open only to the darkness, such was the face upon which she looked.