escape its destiny made life appear to her but as a tragic procession, in which all its distractions and vanities were only so much make-believe, in order to hide its destination from eyes that feared to see.  The helplessness, the pitifulness of the passing away of the lonely old woman gave a dignity, a grandeur to her declining moments, which infected the common furniture of the room.  The cheap, painted chest of drawers, the worn trunk at the foot of the bed, the dingy wall-paper, the shaded white glass lamp on the rickety table, all seemed invested with a nobility alien to their everyday common appearance, inasmuch as they assisted at the turning of a living thing, who had rejoiced, and toiled, and suffered, into unresponsive clay.  Even the American clock on the mantelpiece acquired a fine distinction by reason of its measuring the last moments of a human being, with all its miserable sensibility to pain and joy—­a distinction that was not a little increased, in Mavis’ eyes, owing to the worldly insignificance of the doomed woman.

After Mavis had got ready to hand things that might be wanted in the night, she settled herself in a chair by the head of the bed in order to snatch what sleep she might.  Before she dozed, she wondered if that day week, which she would be spending at Mrs Gowler’s, would find her as prostrated by illness as was her friend.  Two or three times in the dread silent watches of the night, she was awakened by Miss Nippett’s continually talking to herself.  Mavis would interrupt her by asking if she would take any nourishment; but Miss Nippett, vouchsafing no answer, would go on speaking as before, her talk being entirely concerned with matters connected with the academy.  And all the time, the American clock on the mantelpiece remorselessly ticked off the accompanist’s remaining moments.

Mavis, heartsick and weary, got little sleep.  She watched the night grow paler and paler outside the window, till, presently, the shaded lamp at the bedside seemed absurdly wan.  Birds greeted with their songs the coming of the day.  The sun rose in another such a blue sky as that on which she and Charlie Perigal had enjoyed their never-to-be-forgotten visit to Llansallas Bay.  Mavis was not a little jarred by the insensibility of the June day to Miss Nippett’s approaching dissolution.  She reflected in what a sad case would be humanity, if there were no loving Father to welcome the bruised and weary traveller, arrived at the end of life’s pilgrimage, with loving words or healing sympathy.  In her heart of hearts, she envied Miss Nippett the heavenly solace and divine compassion which would soon be hers.  Then her heart leapt to the glory of the young June day; she devoutly hoped that she would be spared to witness many, many such days as she now looked upon.

“Mrs Kenrick!” said a voice from the bed.

“Are you awake?” asked Mavis.

“Do draw that there blind.  I can’t stand that there sun.”