“Come!” she said softly; and Isoult rose and followed her.
On a little truckle-bed in the chamber above, lay the dying child. Had she survived till the following spring, she would then have been eight years old. As Isoult bent over her, a smile broke on the thin wan face, and the little voice said,—“Aunt Isoult!” This was Honour’s pet name for her friend; for there was no tie of relationship between them. Isoult softly stroked the fair hair. “Aunt Isoult,” the faint voice pursued, “I pray you, tell me if I shall die? My Lady my grandmother will not say, and it hurteth my mother to ask her.”
Isoult glanced at Lady Lisle for permission to reply.
“Speak thy will, child!” she said in a steeled voice. “We can scarce be more sorrowful than we are, I count. Yet I do marvel what we have sinned more than others, that God punisheth us so much the sorer.”
A grieved look came into Isoult’s eyes, but she only answered the question of the little child.
“Ay, dear Honor,” she replied; “methinks the Lord Jesus shall send His angels for thee afore long.”
“Send His angels?” she repeated feebly.
“Ay, dear heart. Wouldst thou not love to see them?”
“I would rather He would come Himself,” said the child. “I were gladder to see Him than them.”
Isoult’s voice failed her a minute, and Frances laid her head down on the foot of the bed, and broke into a passion of tears.