“Is he dying, papa?” she inquired in a pitiful voice.
“Not this moment, my dear. But Dr. Hobbs declares that he cannot live many days in any case, and may not live an hour if another hemorrhage should come on. Will you come with me, my dear?”
“Oh, papa, I cannot!”
“Jennie, how can you be so hard-hearted?” demanded her mother, now entering into the conversation for the first time. “I am ashamed of you, and afraid for you lest you be punished. After the man is dead and gone, and you can never be kind to him again, you will be sorry. Go, at least, and speak to him if you only stay one minute.”
“Come, Jennie,” said her father.
And then the young woman arose and followed the clergyman to the sick-room.
She entered that room under protest; but when she saw the ghastly, death-stricken face, the skeleton hand stretched out to her, the hollow, sunken, unearthly eyes fixed upon her, she uttered a low cry of horror and pity, and sank down on her knees beside the bed, took his hand and dropped her face upon it.
The rector turned and left the room, closing the door after him.
“There, there, don’t cry! What is the use? Jennie, I am sorry that I ever hurt you in any way. That is what I wanted to say to you, and that is why I sent for you,” he said, speaking in a rather faint and faltering voice.
She did not reply, but sobbed in silence.