She lay on the affected side, and with her other arm she was constantly sawing the air, not exactly in a restless manner, but in a monotonous, incessant way, very trying to a watcher. She was talking away, too, almost as constantly, in a low indistinct tone. But her face, her profiled countenance, looked calm and smiling, even interested by the ideas that were passing through her clouded mind. "Listen!" said Margaret, as she stooped her head down to catch the muttered words more distinctly. "What will mother say? The bees are turning homeward for th' last time, and we've a terrible long bit to go yet. See I here's a linnet's nest in this gorse bush. Th' hen bird is on it. Look at her bright eyes, she won't stir. Aye! we mun hurry home. Won't mother be pleased with the bonny lot of heather we've got! Make haste, Sally, maybe we shall have cockles for supper. I saw th' cockle-man's donkey turn up our way fra' Arnside." Margaret touched Mary's hand, and the pressure in return told her that they understood each other; that they knew how in this illness to the old, world-weary woman, God bad sent her a veiled blessing she was once more in the scenes of her childhood, unchanged and bright as in those long departed days; once more with the sister of her youth, the playmate of fifty years ago, who had for nearly as many years slept in a grassy grave in the little churchyard beyond Burton. Alice's face changed; she looked sorrowful, almost penitent. "Oh, Sally! I wish we'd told her. She thinks we were in church all morning, and we've gone on deceiving her. If we'd told her at first how it was--how sweet th' hawthorn smelt through the open church door, and how we were on th' last bench in the aisle, and how it were the first butterfly we'd seen this spring, and how it flew into th' very church itself; oh! mother is so gentle, I wish we'd told her. I'll go to her next time she comes in sight, and say, 'Mother, we were naughty last Sabbath.'" She stopped, and a few tears came stealing down the old withered cheek, at the thought of the temptation and deceit of her childhood. Surely, many sins could not have darkened that innocent child-like spirit since. Mary found a red-spotted pocket-handkerchief; and put it into the hand which sought about for something to wipe away the trickling tears. She took it with a gentle murmur. "Thank you, mother." Mary pulled Margaret away from the bed. "Don't you think she's happy, Margaret?" "Aye! that I do, bless her. She feels no pain, and knows nought of her present state. Oh! that I could see, Mary! I try and be patient with her afore me, but I'd give aught I have to see her, and see what she wants.
