But Baby has heard, through the faint mists that are rising up around her; the voice of the man who loves her finds an echo in her heart.
“Let him come near, governor,” she says slowly, with an effort. “He isn’t a gentleman, but I loved him and asked him to marry me, but he wouldn’t, governor. He said he wouldn’t hurt me by doing it.”
“Quite right of him,” Lord Beranger falters through the tears that roll down his cheeks. “Hargreaves, come closer.”
He draws closer and kneels down beside the couch, and taking up one long, glittering tress, he puts his quivering lips to it.
“You may kiss me, Hargreaves,” Baby murmurs, with a half smile on her pale lips. “There are no convenances where I’m going!”
He rises from his knees and, bending over, kisses her for the first and the very last time.
“Good—bye—all!” she gasps. “I have—had—a—jolly—time—but—I’m—not sorry—to—go! Go—od—bye!”
Her eyes close, a grey hue runs round the pretty lips and the shadow of the Angel of Death falls on her little face.
Only a few hours more and Baby is gone!—gone with her smiles and her wiles, her coaxing ways and her naughty ways—gone to that land which only faith can pierce and where only love can follow.
There is not a dry eye in the household, when with awesome spirit and noiseless tread they go in to see the last of her.