"All the good little girls go there, don't they?"
"Yes. Most certainly."
"When doctors come to people they are ill, aren't they? And they die sometimes when they are ill, don't they?... If I die now shall I go right straight to heaven, Prince Charlie?"
The woman kneeling by the bedside turned away her head. The trembling hand found her throat and helped to stifle the sob bursting there. Life and death were fighting for conquest. Contemplation of the battle is ever sad; sadder because the watchers can do nought to turn the tide of victory. Time was arbiter; yet the little one was speaking as if the Grim One's victory were assured.
There was a little quaver, just a little huskiness, in Masters' voice, as he said:
"Don't talk of dying, Gracie."
"Oh, I am not going to die yet."
The child's attempt at a laugh was pitiful, by reason of the lack of mirth in it; she continued:
"I shouldn't be able to marry you till you got to heaven if I did, should I? How full it must be up there of little boys and girls, Prince Charlie."
"Yes, darling."