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“You mean that I have killed her,” said Anthony savagely.

“No,” replied the doctor, “she is dying of tuberculosis of the lungs. What were the primary causes which induced that disease I cannot be sure. All I said was that she appears to welcome it, or rather its issue. And I will add this on my own account, that when she does die the world will lose one of the sweetest women that ever walked upon it. Good morning.”

“I know what he means,” said Anthony to himself, as he watched the retreating form. “He means that I have murdered her, and perhaps I have. She is sick of me and wants to get back to my father, who was so different. That’s why she won’t go on living when she might. She is committing suicide–of a holy sort. Well, what made me a brute and her an angel? And when she’s gone how will the brute get on without the angel? Why should I be filled with fury and wickedness and she of whom I was born with sweetness and light? Let God or the devil answer that if they can. My mother, oh! my mother!” and this violent, sinister youth hid his face in his hands and wept.

Barbara sank down and down into a very whirlpool of nothingness. Bending over it, as it were, she saw the face of her aged mother, the faces of some of her dear sisters, the face of the kindly doctor, and lastly the agonised face of her handsome son.

“Mother! Don’t leave me, mother. Mother! for God’s sake come back to me, mother, or we shall never meet again. Come back to save me!”

These were the last words that Barbara heard.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ATONEMENT

Now these are the things that seemed to happen to Barbara after her earthly death. Or rather some of the things, for most of them have faded away and been lost to her mortal memory.

Consciousness returned to her, but at first it was consciousness in an utter dark. Everywhere was blackness, and in it she was quite alone. The whole universe seemed to centre in her solitary soul. Still she felt no fear, only a kind of wonder at this infinite blank through which she was being borne for millions and millions of miles.

Lights began to shine in the blackness like to those of passing ships upon a midnight sea. Now she was at rest, and the rest was long and sweet. Every fear and sad thought, every sensation of pain or discomfort left her. Peace flowed into her.

Presently she became aware of a weight upon her knee, and wondered by what it could be caused, for it reminded her of something; became aware also that there was light about her. At length her eyes opened and she perceived the light, though dimly, and that it was different to any she had known, purer, more radiant. She perceived also that she lay upon a low couch, and that the weight upon her knee was caused by something shaped like the head of a dog. Nay, it was the head of a dog, and one she knew well, Anthony’s dog, that had died upon his bed. Now she was sure that she dreamed, and in her dream she tried to speak to the dog. The words that her mind formed were:

“Nell! Is that you, Nell?” but she could not utter them.

Still they were answered, for it appeared to her that the dog thought, and that she could read its thought, which was:

“Yes, it is I, who though but a dog, having been the last to leave you, am allowed to be the first to greet you,” and it lifted its head and looked at her with eyes full of a wonderful love.

Her heart went out towards the faithful beast in a kind of rapture, and her intelligence formed another question, it was:

“Where am I, and if you, a creature, are here, where are the others?”