She crept still closer to him. She was quieted for the moment, and filled with an awe as if angels were all about them. Her wild grief was hushed,—the agony of clutching pain in her throat dissolved itself in silent tears, and the sound of the surf now seemed a peaceful, soothing voice.
She felt as though she were going with her father along the way through the dark valley,—even to the very gates of jasper and pearl that would give him entrance to the City of Light, then to close, leaving her without.
Fainter, yet fainter grew his voice, at length dying away altogether. She heard her name breathed softly, just as he used to speak it when she, a little maid, was nestling in his arms, and he wished to assure himself of her being asleep.
"Yes," she whispered.
"My baby, 't is growing dark, blackly dark, little one. Ye'd better get to bed."
She made no answer—she could not, but listened breathlessly.
"My baby—my baby Dot. God keep my baby!"
The words were scarcely spoken, but came like long sighs, to mingle and die away with the night wind moaning outside the window. And it was as if the surf caught them, and repeated them to the watching stars.
"God—keep—my—baby!"
The room was still—still as the great loving heart under her cheek. And the tide was on the ebb.