There was no response in the sick girl's countenance, and again that look of triumph, of sinister exultation.
They had tried to cheat her into sleeping, and living, and in spite of them, at the supreme moment, every sense was awake and expectant.

To what was the materialized peasant imagination looking forward?
To an actual call, an actual following, to the free mountain-side, the rush of the wind, the phantom figure floating on before her, bearing her into the heart of the storm?
Dread was gone, pain was gone; there was only rapt excitement and fierce anticipation.
'Mary,' said Catherine again, mistaking her mood for one of tense defiance and despair, 'Mary, if I were to go out now and leave Mrs.
Irwin with you, and if I were to go up all the way to the top of Shanmoss and back again, and if I could tell you there was nothing there, nothing!--If I were to stay out till the dark has come--it will be here in half an hour--and you could be quite sure when you saw me again, that there was nothing near you but the dear old hills, and the power of God, could you believe me and try and rest and sleep ?' Mary looked at her intently.

If Catherine could have seen clearly in the dim light she would have caught something of the cunning of madness slipping into the dying woman's expression.

While she waited for the answer, there was a noise in the kitchen outside an opening of the outer door, and a voice.

Catherine's heart stood still.