She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale,
wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my fear was
"Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice.
"Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could
not speak and look so calmly if she were."
I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her cheek
both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of
"Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard it
strike some minutes since."
"I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not
sleep till I had spoken to you."
"You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably."
"Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?"
"Yes; to my long home--my last home."