Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white
curtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form
under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse
I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an
unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to
be seen: I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious
patient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the crib
side: my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I
withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.
"Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?"
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 instantly dissipated.
"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 old.
"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."
"No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my
tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the
nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she
whispered "Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with
my quilt."
I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her.
After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering "I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must
be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all
must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not
painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no
one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately
married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great
sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well
in the world: I should have been continually at fault."