But Angel shook her head impatiently, and darted away out of sight.
That same evening Mrs. Wilkinson gave Mrs. Rattray full elaborate directions respecting her funeral, and the children's mourning, no black except sashes—they had ribbon of the exact width at Narainswamy's—she hated the idea of a shroud, and desired to be buried in a white dress, "the white dress," she added, "since in it I caught my death."
All these injunctions, delivered in a low voice and quiet, every-day manner, were a severe ordeal for her friend. Presently, when Colonel Wilkinson came in to say good-night, he was bidden a solemn good-bye. He was much startled, agitated, and shaken, and broke down completely. Then her mother sent for Angel, who ran in in stockinged feet, climbed on the bed, and threw her arms tightly about her, as if she would never release her again.
"Oh, my own poor baby," murmured the sick woman, "I am going—to leave you."
"No, mummy," she returned breathlessly; "no, no, never!"
"I can only talk to you a little, darling, and you must listen to every word I say," urged her mother in a whisper. "Philip will take care of you—I have given you to him. He has promised to send you to England and have you educated. Never forget how generous this is—always obey him and be good. I have promised for you—I want you to be so happy."
"And oh, mummy, I only want to go with you!" was the answer in a smothered voice.
"You will try and overcome your faults, darling—and be good for my sake—won't you?"
"I'll be good—I'll be anything," she wailed, "only don't leave me! Oh, mummy, mummy!" and the child clung tightly to the dying woman, and broke into hard, dry sobs.