the centre of the room lay Hilda, whose life was now quickly draining
from her, and by her side was placed the sleeping infant. She was
raised and supported on either side by pillows, and her unbound golden
hair fell around her shoulders, enclosing her face as in a frame. Her
pallid countenance seemed touched with an awful beauty that had not
belonged to it in life, whilst in her eyes was that dread and
prescient gaze which sometimes come to those who are about to solve
death's mystery.

By the side of the bed knelt Mr. Fraser, the clergyman of the parish,
repeating in an earnest tone the prayers for the dying, whilst the
sad-faced attendants moved with muffled tread backwards and forwards
from the ring of light around the bed into the dark shadows that lay
beyond.

When Philip came, the clergyman ceased praying, and drew back into the
further part of the room, as did Pigott and the nurse, the former
taking the baby with her.

Hilda motioned to him to come close to her. He came, and bent over and
kissed her, and she, with an effort, threw one ivory arm around his
neck, and smiled sweetly. After about a minute, during which she was
apparently collecting her thoughts, she spoke in a low voice, and in
her native tongue.

"I have not sent for you before, Philip, for two reasons--first,
because I wished to spare you pain; and next, in order that I might
have time to rid my mind of angry thoughts against you. They are all
gone now--gone with every other earthly interest; but I _was_ angry
with you, Philip. And now listen to me--for I have not much time--and