"I was--so weary--so tired, Polly," moaned the wretched woman; "and--I was--always thinking--of your garden--that little baby--so sweet--so sweet."

"Oh, Miss Julia, Miss Julia, pray, pray don't!" sobbed Polly.

"Mine died--years ago--died too--they took it--took it away. I thought if I could get--get as far--you would--"

She stopped speaking, and raised herself in the chair, holding tightly by Polly Morrison's hands, and gazing wildly round the room.

"Miss Julia!"

"Is it dreaming?" she cried, in a hoa.r.s.e loud voice. "No, no," she said softly, and the slow, weary, hesitating syllables dropped faintly again from her thin, pale lips. "I--tried--so hard--I want to--to see--that little little grave--Polly--the little one--asleep."

"Miss Julia! Oh, my dear, my dear."

"For--I'm--I'm tired, dear. Let--let me--see it, Polly--let me go--to sleep."

"Miss Julia--Miss Julia! Help! Tom--Tom! Quick--help! Oh! my G.o.d!"

As wild and pa.s.sionate a cry as ever rose to heaven for help, but it was not answered.

And the Rev Lawrence Paulby stood amidst the crowd that thronged Lawford churchyard,--a hushed, bare-headed crowd,--but his voice became inaudible as he tried to repeat the last words of the service beside poor Julia's grave.

The End.