Chapter 8

lungs, so bad that she was wrapped in blankets and carried down to a room beside mother's, where she could be perfectly quiet. And a strange nurse came--one with a cap and an apron, like you see in pictures of children in hospitals; she was rather pretty and not old at all, and she and mums took turns of watching Hebe; and the air of the room had to be kept exactly the same hotness, like a vinery, you know. And there was a queer, strange, solemn feeling all about, that I can't explain. We all felt it, even though they didn't tell us--not even _me_--how bad the poor little sweet was. The angel of death came very near us that time, mums told us afterwards, and I know it was true. One night I almost felt it myself. I woke all of a sudden, and sat bolt up in bed. I had thought I heard Hebe calling me--I was sure I did--and then I remembered I'd been dreaming about her. I thought we were walking in a wood. It was evening, or afternoon, and it seemed to be getting dark, and I fancied we were looking for the others--it was muddled up with their having gone out that night, you see--and I felt very worried and unhappy.

'Hebe,' I said, 'it's getting very dark.'

'Yes,' she said, 'it is, darker and darker, Jack'; and her voice sounded strange. 'Jack,' she went on, 'hold my hand, I'm rather frightened'; and I felt that she was shivering.

I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to comfort her up.

'Perhaps it'll get lighter again after a bit,' I said. 'I don't think the sun's set yet.'

'Hasn't it?' she said. 'I think it's just going to, though. Jack, can you say that verse about the shadows or the darkness? I can't remember it.'

But I couldn't remember it properly either; however I tried. I could only say, '"I will be with thee"--is it that, Hebe?--"I will be with thee."' And she squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 'Yes, that's it, Jack.'

And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of mine, and ran on in front quite fast, calling joyfully, 'I see them, Jack. Come on quick-- Jack, Jack.'

It was then I awoke, and I found I had been squeezing my own hand quite tight. But I felt sure Hebe had been calling me.

I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I began to cry; I thought Hebe was dead, and then I remembered that the verse I couldn't get right in my dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, and at first that made me feel worse, till all of a sudden it came into my head that it wasn't 'the valley of _death_' but only 'the valley of the _shadow_ of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been _near_ it--near death, I mean,--'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened.

The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor. I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I listened as if I was all ears.

'I think, now----' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said.

But then came much plainer--of course I know his voice so well--from father, '_Thank God_.'

And I knew Hebe was better.

I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old, when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it. She said she thought that to good people--you know what I mean by 'good people'--_Christians_--it should always seem as if, after all, even when they really do have to die, it is only the _shadow_ that they have to go through--'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that is promised to us--'I will be with thee.'

I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different.

And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the shadow. When she got _quite_ well, she told me about it--of the feelings and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see us, and she wished she could hold my hand--'your dear, rough, brown hand, Jack,' she said. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!)

Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the floor and made me dream.