Chapter 27

And the next morning came the "waking up" for which Dowie had so long
waited and prayed. But not as Dowie had expected it or in the way she
hard thought "Nature."

She had scarcely left her charge during the night though she had
pretended that she had slept as usual in an adjoining room. She stole in
and out, she sat by the bed and watched the face on the pillow and
thanked God that--strangely enough--the child slept. She had not dared
to hope that she would sleep, but before midnight she became still and
fell into a deep quiet slumber. It seemed deep, for she ceased to stir
and it was so quiet that once or twice Dowie became a little anxious and
bent over her to look at her closely and listen to her breathing. But,
though the small white face was always a touching sight, it was no
whiter than usual and her breathing though low and very soft was
regular.

"But where the strength's to come from the good God alone knows!" was
Dowie's inward sigh.

The clock had just struck one when she leaned forward again. What she
saw would not have disturbed her if she had not been overstrung by long
anxiety. But now--after the woeful day--in the middle of the night with
the echo of the clock's solitary sound still in the solitary room--in
the utter stillness of moor and castle emptiness she was startled almost
to fright. Something had happened to the pitiful face. A change had come
over it--not a change which had stolen gradually but a change which was
actually sudden. It was smiling--it had begun to smile that pretty smile
which was a very gift of God in itself.

Dowie drew back and put her hand over her mouth. "Oh!" she said "Can she
be--going--in her sleep?"

But she was not going. Even Dowie's fright saw that in a few moments
more. Was it possible that a mist of colour was stealing over the
whiteness--or something near colour? Was the smile deepening and growing
brighter? Was that caught breath something almost like a little sob of a
laugh--a tiny ghost of a sound more like a laugh than any other sound on
earth?

Dowie slid down upon her knees and prayed devoutly--clutching at the
robe of pity and holding hard--as women did in crowds nearly two
thousand years ago.

"Oh, Lord Jesus," she was breathing behind the hands which hid her
face--"if she can dream what makes her smile like that, let her go on,
Lord Jesus--let her go on."

When she rose to her chair again and seated herself to watch it almost
awed, it did not fade--the smile. It settled into a still radiance and
stayed. And, fearful of the self-deception of longing as she was, Dowie
could have sworn as the minutes passed that the mist of colour had been