“Dear saint, think of yourself; do not trouble your heart about any one else.”
“Did Mr. Montrose call yesterday?”
“Yes, dear child, but you were then too ill to see any one. But I suppose he will come this morning, as usual.”
“No, he will not. We agreed that as he is permitted but one visit in the day, he should not come on this last day until the evening, so as to see me at as late a period as possible before my death. You see how calmly I can speak of that now, Mrs. Barton.”
“Thank God, my dear, though it breaks my heart to hear you.”
After her frugal breakfast, Eudora asked for pen, ink and paper, and sat down to write her last wishes, to be confided to Malcolm.
Meanwhile, the chaplain of the prison, who had been very ill with fever for the last week, arose from his sick-bed to administer the last consolations of religion to the condemned girl.
He found Eudora seated at the little table and engaged in writing.
She arose as he entered, and held out her hand, saying:
“I am glad you have come to see me again on this last day, Mr. Goodall—sit down.”