It was the only conviction that remained to her from out of chaos, and she held to it as to the last link with sanity.
“There is only one solution. I had to pray for that.”
“God holds all solutions in His own hands,” said the nun. “Your beloved little sister has done her work for Him on earth, and He has taken her to Himself.”
“Is Francie dead?” asked Rosamund in that gentle inward voice.
“Our Lord called her to Heaven, in her sleep, and she went so quietly. She is with Him, dear child.”
“She is dead,” repeated Rosamund. “I prayed for Francie to die and she’s dead—thank God—oh!”—her voice choked in her throat—“I’m thanking God that Francie is dead——”
The darkness closed round her and she touched the depths—the very depths—of the abyss.
And because those depths are deeper than we can plumb with our frail strength, a merciful unconsciousness was vouchsafed to Rosamund even as she reached them.
XXVII
ROSAMUND lay in the tiny convent infirmary where she had been for a week.