fire, then passing away and leaving no aching
pain behind, but a new cleansed spirit.

In the long summer twilight—the beautiful
summer twilight that never sinks into perfect
night—these two women lay side by side
together; she that was oldest in suffering still
comforting the other, until Bertha's tears
were dried, and exhausted with the grief that
was so new to her, she lay silent in Gabrielle's
arms—both silent, looking into the summer
night, and thinking of the days that were
for ever past. And sleeping at their feet lay
Gabrielle's child, not forgotten by her watchful
love, though the night had deepened so
that she could not see him where he lay.

CHAPTER IV.

"We will not stay here, sister," Bertha had
said. "This gloomy house will always make
us sad. It is so dark and cold here, and
Willie, more than any of us, needs the
sunlight to strengthen and cheer him, poor boy."

"And I too shall be glad to leave it,"
Gabrielle answered.

So they went. They did not leave the
village; it was a pretty quiet place, and was
full of old recollections to them—more bitter
than sweet, perhaps, most of them—but still
such as it would have been pain to separate
themselves from entirely, as, indeed, it is
always sad to part from things and places
which years, either of joy or sorrow, have
made us used to. So they did not leave it, but
chose a little cottage, a mile or so from their
former house—a pleasant little cottage in a
dell, looking to the south, with honeysuckle
and ivy twining together over it, up to the
thatched roof. A cheerful little nook it was,
not over bright or gay, but shaded with large
trees all round it, through whose green
branches the sunlight came, softened and
mellowed, into the quiet rooms. An old
garden, too, there was, closed in all round
with elm trees—a peaceful, quiet place,
where one would love to wander, or to lie
for hours upon the grass, looking through
the green leaves upwards to the calm
blue sky.

To Gabrielle, wearied with her sorrow, this
place was like an oasis in the desert. It was
so new a thing to her to find rest anywhere:
to find one little spot where she could lay her
down, feeling no care for the morrow. Like
one exhausted with long watching, she seemed
now for a time to fall asleep.

The summer faded into autumn; the
autumn into winter. A long, cold winter it
was, the snow lying for weeks together on the
frozen ground; the bitter, withering, east
wind moaning day and night, through the
great branches of the bare old elms, swaying
them to and fro, and strewing the
snowy earth with broken boughs; a cold
and bitter winter, withering not only trees
and shrubs, but sapping out the life from
human hearts.

He was a little delicate boy, that child of
Gabrielle's. To look at him, it seemed a
wonder how he ever could have lived through
all their poverty and daily struggles to get
bread; how that little feeble body had not
sunk into its grave long ago. In the bright
summer's days a ray of sunlight had seemed
to pierce to the little frozen heart, and
warming the chilled blood once more, had
sent it flowing through his veins, tinging the
pale cheek with rose; but the rose faded as
the summer passed away, and the little
marble face was pale as ever when the winter
snow began to fall; the large dark eyes, which
had reflected the sunbeams for a few short
months, were heavy and dim again. And
then presently there came another change.
A spot of crimson—a deep red rose—not
pale and delicate like the last, glowed often
on each hollow cheek; a brilliant light
burned in the feverish restless eye; a hollow,
painful cough shook the little emaciated
frame. So thin he was, so feeble, so soon
wearied. Day by day the small thin hand
grew thinner and more transparent; the
gentle voice and childish laugh lower and
feebler; the sweet smile sweeter, and fainter,
and sadder.

And Gabrielle saw it all, and bowing to
the earth in bitter mourning, prepared
herself for this last great sorrow.

The spring came slowly on—slowly, very
slowly. The green leaves opened themselves,
struggling in their birth with the cold wind.
It was very clear and bright; the sun
shone all day long; but for many weeks
there had been no rain, and the ground was
quite parched up.

"No, Willie, dear," Gabrielle said, "you
mustn't go out to-day. It is too cold for you
yet, dear boy."

"But, indeed, it isn't cold, mother. Feel
here, where the sun is falling, how warm it
is; put your hand upon it. Oh, mother, let
me go out," poor Willie said, imploringly.
"I am so weary of the hours. I won't try to
run about, only let me go and lie in the
sunlight?"

"Not to-day, my darling, wait another day;
perhaps the warm winds will come. Willie,
dear child, it would make you ill, you must
not go."

"You say so every day, mother," Willie
said, sadly, "and my head is aching so with
staying in the house."

And at last, he praying so much for it, one
day they took him out. It was a very sunny
day, with scarcely a cloud in the bright blue
sky; and Bertha and Gabrielle made a couch
for him in a warm sheltered corner, and laid
him on it. Poor child, he was so glad to feel
himself in the open air again. It made him
so happy, that he laughed and talked as he
had not done for months before; lying with
his mother's hand in his, supported in her
arms, she kneeling so lovingly beside him,
listening with a strange passionate mingling
of joy and misery to the feeble but merry