No sudden shock or fit came to bring about the end.  Gradually the old dame’s strength failed.  There came an hour in the spring time—­it was the midnight hour of an April night—­when she lay upon her bed, sitting up high against white pillows, gasping for the last breaths that she would ever draw.  They had drawn aside the old-fashioned bed-curtains, so that they hung like high dark pillars at the four posts.  They had opened wide the windows, and the light spring wind blew through the room fresh with the dews of night.  Outside, the moon was riding among her clouds; the night was white.  The budding trees shook their twigs together in the garden.  Inside the room, firelight and lamplight, each flickering much because of the wind, mingled with the moonlight, but did not wholly obscure its misty presence.  They all stood there—­the minister, the doctor, the grey-haired daughters sobbing, looking and longing for one glance of recognition, the nurse, and the new maid.

They all knelt, while the minister said a prayer.

‘She’s looking differently now,’ whispered the home-keeping daughter.  She had drawn her handkerchief from her eyes, and was looking with awed solicitude at her mother’s face.

‘Yes, there’s a change coming,’ said the married daughter; her large bosom heaved out the words with excited emotion.

‘Speak to her of my father—­it will bring her mind back again,’ they appealed to the minister, pushing him forward to do what they asked.

The minister took the lady’s hands in his, and spoke out clearly and strongly in her ear; but he spoke not, at first, of husband or children, but of the Son of God.

Memories that had lain asleep so long seemed slowly to awaken for one last moment.

‘You know what I am saying, auntie?’ The minister spoke strongly, as to one who was deaf.

There was a smile on the handsome old face.

’Ay, I know weel:  “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shallna want ... though I walk through the valley o’ the shadow of death."’

‘My uncle, and Thomas, and William have gone before you, auntie.’

‘Ay’—­with a satisfied smile—­’they’ve gone before.’

‘You know who I am?’ he said again.

She knew him, and took leave of him.  She took leave of each of her daughters, but in a calm, weak way, as one who had waded too far into the river of death to be much concerned with the things of earth.

The doctor pressed her hand, and the faithful nurse.  The minister, feeling that justice should be done to one whose wit had brought great relief, bid the maid go forward.

She was weeping, but she spoke in the free, caressing way that she had used so long.

‘Ye know who I am, ma’am?’

The dying eyes looked her full in the face, but gave no recognition.

‘It’s Jeanie Trim.’

’Na, na, I remember a Jeanie Trim long syne, but you’re not Jeanie Trim!’