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How many times the golden water danced on the wall; how many nights the dark, dark river rolled away towards the sea in spite of him, Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness could have increased, or his sense of it, they were more kind, and he more grateful every day; but whether they were many days or few appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room downstairs. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no, the river running very fast and confusing his mind.

“Floy, did I ever see mama?”

“No, darling; why?”

“Did I ever see any kind face like mama’s looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?”

“Oh yes, dear.”

“Whose, Floy?”

“Your old nurse’s, often.”

“And where is my old nurse?” said Paul. “Is she dead, too? Floy are we all dead except you?”

There was a hurry in the room for an instant–longer perhaps–then all was still again, and Florence, with her face quite colourless but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much.

“Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please.”

“She is not here, darling; she shall come to-morrow.”

“Thank you, Floy.”

Paul closed his eyes with these words and fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was high and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro, then he said, “Floy, is it to-morrow? Is she come?” The next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke–woke mind and body–and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them as there had been some time in the night. He knew them every one and called them by their names.

“And who is this? Is this my old nurse?” said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it.

“Floy, this is a kind, good face,” said Paul. “I am glad to see it again. Don’t go away, old nurse. Stay here.”

“Good-bye, my child,” cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed’s head. “Not good-bye?”

For an instant Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire.

“Ah, yes,” he said, placidly, “good-bye. Where is papa?”

He felt his father’s breath upon his cheek before the words had parted from his lips.

“Now lay me down,” he said, “and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you.”

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.

“How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy. But it’s very near the sea. I hear the waves.”

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How near the banks were now. How bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes. Now the boat was out at sea but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank?

He put his hands together as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck,

“Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go.”

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion. The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion–Death.

Oh, thank God for that older fashion yet,–of Immortality!