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Honor started up, opened her mouth to cry “Hush!” then checked herself, suddenly frozen.

“Jim,” cried the dying woman, “listen! Is that the death spider?”

Honor listened, her blood curdling. Then she went towards the door and opened it. “Jim,” she said, in low tones, speaking towards the landing, “tell her it’s nothing, it’s only a mouse. She was always a nervous little thing.” And she closed the door softly, and pressing her trembling sister tenderly back on the pillow, tucked her up snugly in the blanket.

Next morning, when Jim was really present, the patient begged pathetically to have a grandchild with her in the room, day and night. “Don’t leave me alone again,” she quavered, “don’t leave me alone with not a soul to talk to.” Honor winced, but said nothing.

The youngest child, who did not have to go to school, was brought–a pretty little boy with brown curls, which the sun, streaming through the panes, turned to gold. The morning passed slowly. About noon Mercy took the child’s hand, and smoothed his curls.

“My sister Honor had golden curls like that,” she whispered.

“They were in the family, Bobby,” Honor answered. “Your granny had them, too, when she was a girl.”

There was a long pause. Mercy’s eyes were half-glazed. But her vision was inward now.

“The mignonette will be growin’ in the gardens, Bobby,” she murmured.

“Yes, Bobby, and the heart’s-ease,” said Honor, softly. “We lived in the country, you know, Bobby.”

“There is flowers in the country,” Bobby declared gravely.

“Yes, and trees,” said Honor. “I wonder if your granny remembers when we were larruped for stealin’ apples.”

“Ay, that I do, Bobby, he, he,” croaked the dying creature, with a burst of enthusiasm. “We was a pair o’ tomboys. The farmer he ran after us cryin’ ‘Ye! ye!’ but we wouldn’t take no gar. He, he, he!”

Honor wept at the laughter. The native idiom, unheard for half a century, made her face shine under the tears. “Don’t let your granny excite herself, Bobby. Let me give her her drink.” She moved the boy aside, and Mercy’s lips automatically opened to the draught.

“Tom was wi’ us, Bobby,” she gurgled, still vibrating with amusement, “and he tumbled over on the heather. He, he!”

“Tom is dead this forty year, Bobby,” whispered Honor.

Mercy’s head fell back, and an expression of supreme exhaustion came over the face. Half an hour passed. Bobby was called down to dinner. The doctor had been sent for. The silent sisters were alone. Suddenly Mercy sat up with a jerk.

“It be growin’ dark, Tom,” she said hoarsely, “‘haint it time to call the cattle home from the ma’shes?”

“She’s talkin’ rubbidge again,” said Honor, chokingly. “Tell her she’s in London, Bobby.”

A wave of intelligence traversed the sallow face. Still sitting up, Mercy bent towards the side of the bed. “Ah, is Honor still there? Kiss me–Bobby.” Her hands groped blindly. Honor bent down and the old women’s withered lips met.

And in that kiss Mercy passed away into the greater Silence.