Of herself, as Lady Bessie Trevellian she never thought, though there came to her a strong presentiment that she should see Jack again ere long—­that he would come to tell her of his new honor, and would he just as kind and friendly and familiar as he was that day in the park when she first saw him more than two years ago.

Three days later and there came another short letter from her mother, written on shipboard and sent off at Queenstown.  The sea had been very rough and the Brownes and Lord Hardy were sick in their state-rooms, as were many of the passengers, but Daisy had never felt better in her life and was enjoying herself immensely.  She should cable as soon as she reached New York, and she bade Bessie keep up good courage, and sent her love and a kiss to Archie, who, if Bessie thought best, might now be told where she had gone.

Archie was sleeping very quietly when Bessie went into his room, taking her mother’s letter with her.  But there was a white pinched look upon his face which she had never seen there before, and it seemed to her that his breath was growing shorter and more labored, as she watched him with a beating heart until she could no longer endure the fear which had seized upon her, and stooping down, she called aloud: 

“Father, father!”

Her voice awoke him, and lifting his eyes to her face, he smiled upon her the old, loving smile she knew so well and which reassured her a little.

“You have slept very sweetly, and you are better,” she said to him, and he replied: 

“No, Bessie, not better.  I shall never be any better in this world.  There is a weakness all over me this morning, and I cannot lift my hand to touch you—­see?” and he tried to raise the thin, wasted hand lying so helplessly upon the counterpane.

Taking it in her own, Bessie felt that it was cold as ice, but she rubbed it gently, and said: 

“It is only numb, I shall soon make it warm again.”

“No, Bessie; never any more warmth for me.  I know it now; the end is very near, and the birds are singing everywhere, just as they sang in the summer mornings years ago, when I was a boy.  I used to lie on the grass under the yews, and listen to them, and think they were singing of my future, which I meant should be so bright.  Oh, Bessie, everything has been so different; everything has changed but you and the birds, singing now to me of another future which will be bright and fair.  What season is it, Bessie?  My mind wanders a little.  Is it summer again in the dear old rose-scented-garden?”

“Yes, father; summer everywhere,” Bessie answered him with a choking sob, and he continued: 

“I am glad.  I would rather die in the summer time just as father and mother did.  Bury me by them, Bessie; with no expense, and when Daisy dies lay her by me, too, in the grass where the birds are singing.  She ought to be here now—­to-day; send for her, Bessie; send at once, if a telegram can reach her.”