"I will not go again."
"Then sit here and hold my hands. I think it was a dream. I am not going to die. I am really better. I walked about to-day. Is there word from Monsieur? You know we are going to France in the summer. Do you know what happens when one dies? I've seen the little Indian babies die. Do you suppose they really have souls?"
"Every one born in the world has. The priest will tell you." Rose gained a little courage. "Perhaps you would like to see Father Jamay."
"I went to confession a long while ago. The priest wanted my French books. M. Ralph said I need not give them up. I prayed to the Virgin. I prayed for many things that did not come. But we will go to France, M. Ralph promised, and he never breaks his word, so I do not need to pray for that. I am cold. Cover me up warm, and get something for my feet. Then sit here and put your arms around me. Promise me you will never go away again."
"I promise"—in a sweet, soft tone.
Then she sat on the side of the bed and placed her arm about the shoulders. How thin they were.
"Sing something. The silence frightens me."
Rose sang, sometimes like a chant, lines she could recall that had a musical sound. The leaning figure grew heavier, the breathing was slow and tranquil. Wanamee came in.
"Help me put her down," Rose said, for she was weary with the strained position.
They laid her down tenderly, without waking her.