An hour afterwards I was sitting at the bedside of my dying mother.  The shock of that terrible meeting had brought her understanding—­and death:  for as her mind returned her life ebbed away.  White and placid she lay upon her last bed, and spoke no word; but in her eyes could be read her death-warrant, and by me that which was yet more full of anguish, a tender but unfading reproach.  This world is full of misunderstandings, but seldom is met one so desperate.  How could I tell her now?  And how could she ever understand?  It was all too late.  “Too late! too late!” the words haunted me there as the bright sun struggled through the drawn blind and illumined her saintly face.  They and the look in her sweet eyes have haunted me many a day since then, and would be with me yet, did I not believe she knows the truth at last.  There are too many ghosts in my memories for Heaven to lightly add this one more.

She was dying—­slowly and peacefully dying, and this was the end of her waiting.  He had returned at last, this husband for whose coming she had watched so long.  He had returned at last, after all his labour, and had been laid at her feet a dead man.  She was free to go and join her love.  To me, child as I was, this was sorely cruel.  Death, as I know now, is very merciful even when he seems most merciless, but as I sat and watched the dear life slowly drift away from me, it was a hard matter to understand.

The pale sunlight came, and flickered, and went; but she lay to all seeming unchanged.  Her pulse’s beat was failing—­failing; the broken heart feebly struggling to its rest; but her sad eyes were still the same, appealing, questioning, rebuking—­all without hope of answer or explanation.  So were they when the sobbing fishermen lifted her from the body, so would they be until closed for the last sleep.  It was very cruel.

My father’s body lay in the room below, with Uncle Loveday and Mrs. Busvargus for watchers.  Now and again my uncle would steal softly upstairs, and as softly return with hopelessness upon his face.  The clock downstairs gave the only sound I heard, as it marked the footsteps of the dark angel coming nearer and nearer.  Twice my mother’s lips parted as if to speak; but though I bent down to catch her words, I could hear no sound.

So, as I sat and watched her waxen face, all the sweet memories of her came back in a sad, reproachful train.  Once more we sat together by the widowed hearth, reading:  once more we stood upon the rocky edge of Pedn-glas and looked into the splendours of the summer sunset “for father’s ship:”  once more we knelt together in Polkimbra Church, and prayed for his safe return:  once more I heard that sweet, low voice—­once more?  Ah, never, never more!

Uncle Loveday stole into the room on tip-toe, and looked at her; then turned and asked—­

“Has she spoken yet?”

“No.”

He was about to leave when the lips parted again, and this time she spoke—­