Further, Beatrice told her assistant that she had determined to alter the course of certain lessons in the school.  The Wednesday arithmetic class had hitherto been taken before the grammar class.  On the morrow she had determined to change this; she would take the grammar class at ten and the arithmetic class at eleven, and gave her reasons for so doing.  The teacher assented, and Beatrice shook hands with her and bade her good-night.  She would have wished to say how much she felt indebted to her for her help in the school, but did not like to do so, fearing lest, in the light of pending events, the remark might be viewed with suspicion.

Poor Beatrice, these were the only lies she ever told!

She left the teacher’s lodgings, and was about to go down to the beach and sit there till it was time, when she was met by the father of the crazed child, Jane Llewellyn.

“Oh, Miss Beatrice,” he said, “I have been looking for you everywhere.  We are in sad trouble, miss.  Poor Jane is in a raving fit, and talking about hell and that, and the doctor says she’s dying.  Can you come, miss, and see if you can do anything to quiet her?  It’s a matter of life and death, the doctor says, miss.”

Beatrice smiled sadly; matters of life and death were in the air.  “I will come,” she said, “but I shall not be able to stay long.”

How could she better spend her last hour?

She accompanied the man to his cottage.  The child, dressed only in a night-shirt, was raving furiously, and evidently in the last stage of exhaustion, nor could the doctor or her mother do anything to quiet her.

“Don’t you see,” she screamed, pointing to the wall, “there’s the Devil waiting for me?  And, oh, there’s the mouth of hell where the minister said I should go!  Oh, hold me, hold me, hold me!”

Beatrice walked up to her, took the thin little hands in hers, and looked her fixedly in the eyes.

“Jane,” she said.  “Jane, don’t you know me?”

“Yes, Miss Granger,” she said, “I know the lesson; I will say it presently.”

Beatrice took her in her arms, and sat down on the bed.  Quieter and quieter grew the child till suddenly an awful change passed over her face.

“She is dying,” whispered the doctor.

“Hold me close, hold me close!” said the child, whose senses returned before the last eclipse.  “Oh, Miss Granger, I shan’t go to hell, shall I?  I am afraid of hell.”

“No, love, no; you will go to heaven.”

Jane lay still awhile.  Then seeing the pale lips move, Beatrice put her ear to the child’s mouth.

“Will you come with me?” she murmured; “I am afraid to go alone.”

And Beatrice, her great grey eyes fixed steadily on the closing eyes beneath, whispered back so that no other soul could hear except the dying child: 

“Yes, I will come presently.”  But Jane heard and understood.

“Promise,” said the child.