“I never thought so,” said Miriam.  “It was one of my mad freaks—­an evil wish to torment him.  I have been a nightmare to him ever since my first appearance.  I hardly know whether he hates or fears me most.  But that is all past and gone.  I will never torment him again in this world.  Give me more wine, Mollie—­my lips are parched.”

Miriam moistened her dry mouth and fell back, ghastly and breathing hard.  Mollie rose from the bedside with a heavy sign.

“You will not leave me?” the dying woman whispered, in alarm, opening her glassy eyes.

“Only for a moment, mother.  Mr. Ingelow is below.  I must speak with him.”

She glided from the room and went down-stairs.

Hugh Ingelow, leaning against the door-post, smoking a solacing cigar, and watching the new moon rise, started as she appeared.  She looked so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that he dropped his cigar and stared aghast.

“Is she dead?” he asked.

“She is dying,” Mollie answered.  “I came to tell you I will stay to the last—­I will not leave her again.  You can not, need not wait longer here, Mr. Ingelow.”

“I will not leave you,” Mr. Ingelow said, resolutely, “if I have to stay a week.  Good heavens, Mollie! what do you think I am, to leave you alone and unprotected in this beastly place?”

“I will be safe enough,” Mollie said with a wan smile at his vehemence.  “I dare say the worst crime these poor people are guilty of is poverty.”

“I will not leave you,” Hugh Ingelow reiterated.  “I will go upstairs and stay in the passage all night if you will find me a chair.  I may be needed.”

“You are so kind!” raising her eloquent eyes; “but it is too much—­”

“Not one whit too much.  Don’t let us waste words over a trifle.  Let us go up.”

He ran lightly up the rickety staircase, and Mollie, pausing a moment to tap at Mrs. Slimmens’ door, and ask her to share her last vigil, slowly followed, and returned to the solemn chamber of death.

Mrs. Slimmens, worthy woman, saw to Mr. Ingelow’s comfort.  She found a chair and a little table and a pillow for the young gentleman, and fixed him as agreeably as possible on the landing.  The patient artist laid the pillow upon the table and his head thereon, and slept the sleep of the just.

The long night wore on; Miriam lay, white and still, the fluttering breath just there and no more.  After midnight she sunk lower and lower with every passing hour.  As day-dawn, pale and blank, gleamed dimly across the night, the everlasting day dawned for her.  Sinful and suffering, she was at rest.

Only once she had spoken.  Just before the last great change came, the dulled, glazed eyes opened and fixed themselves on Mollie.

“My darling—­my darling!” she whispered, with a last look of unutterable love.

Then a shiver shook her from head to foot, the death-rattle sounded, the eyeballs rolled upward, and Miriam was dead.