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.