"When my end is drawing nigh,
Ah, leave me not----"
Oh dear, the boy was to die. They were both as though paralysed with terror.
Meanwhile nimble Cilia was flying up and down stairs. She did not feel so dismayed any longer. He would not die, she was sure of that now.
Whilst those who were in the room lifted him into the bath, Paul Schlieben and the nurse, and his mother placed her feeble hands underneath him to support him, Cilia stood outside the door and called upon all her saints. She would have liked to have had her manual of devotion, her "Angels' Bread," but there was no time to fetch it. So she only stammered her "Help" and "Have mercy," her "Hail" and "Fight for him," with all the fervour of her faith.
And the boy's pallid cheeks began to redden. A sigh passed his lips, which had not opened to utter a sound for so long. He was warm when they put him back into the bed. Very soon he was hot; the fever commenced again.
The nurse looked anxious: "Now ice. We shall have to try what ice-bags will do."
Ice! Ice!
"Is there any ice in the house?" Paul Schlieben hurried from the sick-room. He almost hit the girl's forehead with the door as she stood praying outside.
Ice! Ice! They both ran down together. But the cook was at her wits' end too; no, there was no ice, they had not thought any would be required.
"Go and get some, quick."