“I’m dying,” she said abruptly, with some strength still in her deep old voice. “I’m dying, and they’re neither of them here. The Lord forgive me all my sins.”
“Oh, dear aunt, I’m sure you’re a little better; the dear boys are just coming!”
Mrs Waynflete folded her hands together, and looked straight out before her.
“It might have occurred to you, Susan Joshua, to put up a prayer.”
“I didn’t know if you’d like it aloud, Aunt Waynflete. I’m sure I have been praying for you—to myself.”
“Pray for them; it’s more to the purpose.” Then poor Susan Joshua knelt down by the bed and put on her spectacles, and while Jeanie found a Prayer-book, and kneeling beside her held the light, read straight through the absolution and all the prayers for the visitation of the sick, and, if she did not apply the words to any but the passing soul before her, there was many a petition that suited well with the needs of the two, who “whether by the fraud and malice of the devil, or by their own carnal will and frailty,” were so sore bested.
And in the midst, a sound of creaking wheels, a loud tone of inquiry and speeding footsteps, and Godfrey rushed in, pale and horrified, and fell on his knees beside her, clasping her hand.
“Oh, Auntie—Auntie Waynflete!” he cried, almost sobbing. “Oh, Auntie! why wasn’t I here? Auntie, speak to me!”
Mrs Waynflete’s fingers feebly answered to his agitated clasp. She looked hard at him, and she smiled a little, then she said faintly but imperiously—
“Go on with the prayer.”