Mavis, heartsick and weary, got little sleep. She watched the night grow paler and paler outside the window, till, presently, the shaded lamp at the bedside seemed absurdly wan. Birds greeted with their songs the coming of the day. The sun rose in another such a blue sky as that on which she and Charlie Perigal had enjoyed their never-to-be-forgotten visit to Llansallas Bay. Mavis was not a little jarred by the insensibility of the June day to Miss Nippett's approaching dissolution. She reflected in what a sad case would be humanity, if there were no loving Father to welcome the bruised and weary traveller, arrived at the end of life's pilgrimage, with loving words or healing sympathy. In her heart of hearts, she envied Miss Nippett the heavenly solace and divine compassion which would soon be hers. Then her heart leapt to the glory of the young June day; she devoutly hoped that she would be spared to witness many, many such days as she now looked upon.
"Mrs Kenrick!" said a voice from the bed.
"Are you awake?" asked Mavis.
"Do draw that there blind. I can't stand that there sun."
"Does it worry you?"
"Give me the 'lectric, same as they have at the Athenaeum on long nights."
Mavis did as she was bid: the light of the lamp at once became an illumination of some importance.
"Now I want me shawl on again; the old one." "Don't you want any nourishment?" asked Mavis, as she fastened the familiar shawl about Miss Nippett's shoulders.
"What's the use?"
"To get better, of course."