'Hush you now! 'Tis not the time to be talkin' of our savin's. Miss Gwen will take no notice o' such talk.'
And Gwen did not, only chatted on till Patty seemed to grow more restless, and then she took her leave. When she told Agatha how she had found them, Agatha at once resolved to send the doctor.
'She may die. So often, when once people like her give up and take to their bed, they never leave it again.'
The doctor went, and thought very gravely of Patty's state. Agatha and Gwen were constant visitors at the cottage, and did much to comfort poor Deb, who, now convinced that her sister might never recover, was overwhelmed with misery.
'We come into the world together, and we're bound to go out together,' she kept repeating; 'it ain't likely as how she'll leave me behind.'
And if a neighbour would assure her that she was well and strong, and likely to survive her sister for many years, she would only shake her head and say, ''Tis against nature; and if so be as her days are numbered, then so is mine, and I shall be taken, disease or no disease.'
She went about the cottage in a solemn way, turning out old hoards, writing in crabbed handwriting directions about various matters, and Gwen came upon a scrap of paper one day with the following items:—
Cost of two plain coffins . . .
Parish clerk's fee . . . . . . .
Bit of ground by the corner yew.
Bearers for Patty . . . . . . .
Bearers for Deborah . . . . . .
The spaces left she evidently meant to fill up. Gwen promptly burnt the paper, and took her to task about it; but nothing would comfort her, or convince her that by any possibility she could outlive her sister.
And then one evening, quietly and simply, like a little child, Patty passed away. Her last words were to her sister:—