“I had to look after the good man, and the little ’uns,” the daughter pleaded.

“Then what do you mean by desertin’ them now?” the irate old woman retorted.  “First you deserts your mother, and then your husband and children.  You must go back to them as needs your care.  I carried your mother in my arms before you was born, and if she wants anybody else now to look after her, let her just tell me so, and I’ll be off in a brace o’ shakes.”

She looked defiantly at the yellow, dried-up creature in the bed.  Mercy’s withered lips twitched, but no sound came from them.  Jim, strung up by the situation, took the word.  “You can’t do no good up here, the doctor says.  You might look after the kids downstairs a bit, when you can spare an hour, and I’ve got to go to the shop.  I’ll send you a telegraph if there’s a change,” he whispered to the daughter, and she, not wholly discontented to return to her living interests, kissed her mother, lingered a little, and then stole quietly away.

All that day the old women remained together in solemn silence, broken only by the doctor’s visit.  He reported that Mercy might last a couple of days more.  In the evening Jim replaced his sister-in-law, who slept perforce.  At midnight she reappeared and sent him to bed.  The sufferer tossed about restlessly.  At half-past two she awoke, and Honor fed her with some broth, as she would have fed a baby.  Mercy, indeed, looked scarcely bigger than an infant, and Honor only had the advantage of her by being puffed out with clothes.  A church clock in the distance struck three.  Then the silence fell deeper.  The watcher drowsed, the lamp flickered, tossing her shadow about the walls as if she, too, were turning feverishly from side to side.  A strange ticking made itself heard in the wainscoting.  Mercy sat up with a scream of terror.  “Jim!” she shrieked, “Jim!”

Honor started up, opened her mouth to cry “Hush!” then checked herself, suddenly frozen.

“Jim,” cried the dying woman, “listen!  Is that the death spider?”

Honor listened, her blood curdling.  Then she went towards the door and opened it.  “Jim,” she said, in low tones, speaking towards the landing, “tell her it’s nothing, it’s only a mouse.  She was always a nervous little thing.”  And she closed the door softly, and pressing her trembling sister tenderly back on the pillow, tucked her up snugly in the blanket.

Next morning, when Jim was really present, the patient begged pathetically to have a grandchild with her in the room, day and night.  “Don’t leave me alone again,” she quavered, “don’t leave me alone with not a soul to talk to.”  Honor winced, but said nothing.

The youngest child, who did not have to go to school, was brought—­a pretty little boy with brown curls, which the sun, streaming through the panes, turned to gold.  The morning passed slowly.  About noon Mercy took the child’s hand, and smoothed his curls.