she could get two hundred pounds wherewith to take Jeannie away to the
South of France. Mr. Meeson would, no doubt, make a hard bargain--the
hardest he could; but still, if she would consent to bind herself for a
sufficient number of years at a sufficiently low salary, he would
probably advance her a hundred pounds, besides the hundred for the
copyright of the new book.

And so having made up her mind to the sacrifice, she went to bed, and,
wearied out with misery, to sleep. And even as she slept, a Presence that
she could not see was standing near her bed, and a Voice that she could
not hear was calling through the gloom. Another mortal had bent low at
the feet of that Unknown God whom men name Death, and been borne away on
his rushing pinions into the spaces of the Hid. One more human item lay
still and stiff, one more account was closed for good or evil, the echo
of one more tread had passed from the earth for ever. The old
million-numbered tragedy in which all must take a part had repeated
itself once more down to its last and most awful scene. Yes; the grim
farce was played out, and the little actor Jeannie was white in death!

Just at the dawn, Augusta dreamed that somebody with cold breath was
breathing on her face, and woke up with a start and listened. Jeannie's
bed was on the other side of the room, and she could generally hear her
movements plainly enough, for the sick child was a restless sleeper. But
now she could hear nothing, not even the faint vibration of her sister's
breath. The silence was absolute and appalling; it struck tangibly upon
her sense, as the darkness struck upon her eye-balls and filled her with
a numb, unreasoning terror. She slipped out of bed and struck a match. In
another few seconds she was standing by Jeannie's white little bed,
waiting for the wick of the candle to burn up. Presently the light grew.
Jeannie was lying on her side, her white face resting on her white arm.