"My poor Alice, what have you to do with it?" she whispered.
"And why do you talk of sleeping no more with me?" said Alice.
"Why? Alice dear—no why—no reason—only a knowledge that it must be so, or Una will die."
"Die, Una darling!--what can you mean?"
"Yes, sweet Alice, die, indeed. We must all die some time, you know, or—or undergo a change; and my time is near—very near—unless I sleep apart from you."
"Indeed, Una, sweetheart, I think you are ill, but not near death."
"Una knows what you think, wise Alice—but she's not mad—on the contrary, she's wiser than other folks."
"She's sadder and stranger too," said Alice, tenderly.
"Knowledge is sorrow," answered Una, and she looked across the room through her golden hair which she was combing—and through the window, beyond which lay the tops of the great trees, and the still foliage of the glen in the misty moonlight.
"'Tis enough, Alice dear; it must be so. The bed must move hence, or Una's bed will be low enough ere long. See, it shan't be far though, only into that small room."