Wallace sat gazing upon her.
"You'll be sure to let us know if you are unhappy. If things don't go straight."
"I have promised to write."
"To me?"
"No—to Prue. I have always slept in Prue's room, and Prue has been so good. Bertha says Sissie cared most of all for Prue."
The day of parting drew near, and hour after hour Lettice had a question in her mind, which she longed to ask. Day and night she was haunted by recollections of her last brief interview with Cecilia, and of Cecilia's eager words, more especially the message to Felix.
"Nothing—nothing—worth living for, but to serve God. Tell him from me! I would give anything now to have lived a different life! . . . Too late for that! . . . There is forgiveness, but oh, to have lived for Him! . . . The pitifulness of coming to Him only at last! . . . The difference now if I had lived for Him! Don't put off! Pray to be shown!"
These sentences Lettice would never forget. They were stamped upon her brain. She knew that Cecilia had spoken to Prue of no longer fearing to die. But then, why these burning regrets? What did Sissie wish to have done differently? And what did she mean that Lettice was to do? Lettice would lie and think herself into a maze of bewilderment; yet in her shyness, in her dread of seeming to blame Sissie, she could not endure to speak out. But the pressure became at length too severe, intensified as it was by the knowledge that very soon she would have no one whom she could ask. When Prue came to her room, on the last evening of all, she found Lettice waiting for her, wide awake.
"Not asleep yet, my dear."
"No. I want to speak. I must say it before I go. Please come and sit here. I want to know what she meant."