“Darling,” she said, “could you sleep as well in my big chair, which can be tipped back?”

“Certainly, sweet,” I said; “but why?”

“Because that can be drawn up so much nearer me; it will be like sleeping together.”

At nine o’clock the nurse brought the baby in and laid him in Annie’s bosom, sound asleep.  Annie would not let him lie anywhere else, and was so grieved at any remonstrance, that the doctor said she must be indulged in the desire.  When she was awake and was not speaking to us, her eyes never left the baby’s face.

She turned over, with her face to the chair in which I lay, and reached out her left hand towards me.  I took it in mine, and so, with our hands clasped above the little sleeping baby, we said “good-night” to each other.

“I feel much better to-night than I have for some days, dear Helen,” she said; “I should not wonder if we all three slept until morning.”

Very soon I saw that she was asleep.  I watched her face for a long time; it was perfectly colorless and very thin, and yet there was not a look of illness on it.  The ineffable serenity, the holy peace, made it look like the face of one who had been transfigured, translated; who had not known and who never could know any death.  I cannot account for the sweet calm which I felt through all these weeks.  I shed no tears; I did not seem even to sorrow.  I accepted all, as Annie herself accepted it, without wonder, without murmur.  During the long hours of this last night I lived over every hour of her precious, beautiful life, as I had known and shared it, until the whole seemed to me one fragrant and perfect flower, ready to be gathered and worn in the bosom of angels.  At last I fell asleep.

I was wakened by a low murmur from the baby, who stirred uneasily.  Annie’s hand was still locked in mine; as I sought to disengage it cautiously, I felt, with a sudden horror, that the fingers were lifeless.  I sprang to my feet and bent over her; she did not breathe.  Out of that sweet sleep her body had passed into another which would know no waking, and her soul had awakened free.  Slowly I withdrew the little sleeping baby from her arms and carried it to the nurse.  Then I went to Dr. Fearing’s room; he had slept in the house for a week; I found him dressed, but asleep on a lounge.  He had lain in this way, he told me, for four nights, expecting that each would be the last.  When I touched him on the shoulder he opened his eyes, without surprise or alarm, and said,—­

“Did she wake?”

“No,” I replied, and that was all.

The day was just breaking:  as the dark gray and red tints cleared and rolled away, and left a pale yellow sky, the morning star, which I could see from Annie’s bedside, faded and melted in the pure ether.  Even while I was looking at it it vanished, and I thought that, like it, Annie’s bright soul, disappearing from my sight, had blended in Eternal Day.