"I ain't a thief, Ailie, but maybe He'd hear me," said Jem.
"I'd try," said Ailie.
Jem Carter looked up, glanced round, gazed at the bare floor, the bare walls, the bare ceiling. "There's nobody to speak to," he said. "Ailie, can't ye do it for me?"
Ailie did not need to ask his meaning; she understood it as well as he did himself. She had never been taught to kneel and clasp her hands in prayer, like so many happier little ones; but, after a moment's hesitation, she folded her arms together, looked into the darkest corner of the cellar, and said in a frightened undertone:
"Please remember father, like the thief. He wants it ever so much. Please don't forget father. Please do remember him.
"Will that do, father?" asked Ailie.
"Please, Lord, remember me when Thou comest," muttered Jem Carter after her. "There's nobody else to help. Please have mercy, Jesus, that was nailed up on a Cross. I don't know nothin' more about it."
And once more Ailie chimed in earnestly, "Oh, please do remember father.
"Don't you think He will now, father? 'Cause the thief didn't only ask Him once, an' we've done it three times. Don't you think He won't forget you now, father?"
Was there a smile on the dying face? Ailie thought so. But nothing more was said, and he seemed to fall asleep. Ailie, too, sank off again, and did not wake a second time till daylight was creeping in through the window.
The old woman was the first to rouse herself. She shook her limbs, grumbled at her hard couch, rose with difficulty, and walked across the cellar.