“I forgot to ask Him one thing,” she said. “Please, Lord Jesus, not to send the angels, but come and fetch me Thyself.”
And her eyes closed again. Frances came softly in, and sat down near the bed; and a few minutes after her, Philippa looked in, and then came forward and stood in the window. She and Dr Thorpe looked at each other, and he nodded. Philippa whispered a word or two to Lady Lisle, who appeared to assent to something; and then she came to Frances.
“Dr Thorpe confirmeth me in my thought,” said she, “that ’twill not be long now; therefore I will fetch Father Dell.”
But Frances rose, and laid her hand on her sister’s arm.
“Nay, Philippa!” she said. “I will not have the child’s last hour disturbed.”
“Disturbed by the priest!” exclaimed Philippa, opening her eyes.
“What do ye chaffer about?” cried Lady Lisle, in her old sharp manner. “Go thy ways, Philippa, and send for the priest.”
The noise aroused the dying child.
“Must the priest come?” asked the faint little voice from the bed. “Will Jesus not be enough?”
Frances bent down to kiss her with a resolved look through all her pain.