“He did though, Tomkins,” I answered. “And He’ll send you a little more this evening, after I get home. Keep yourself warm, man. This world’s cold in winter, you know.”
“Indeed, sir, I know that. And I’m like to know it worse afore long. She’s going,” he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb towards the bed where his wife lay.
I went to her. I had seen her several times within the last few weeks, but had observed nothing to make me consider her seriously ill. I now saw at a glance that Tomkins was right. She had not long to live.
“I am sorry to see you suffering so much, Mrs Tomkins,” I said.
“I don’t suffer so wery much, sir; though to be sure it be hard to get the breath into my body, sir. And I do feel cold-like, sir.”
“I’m going home directly, and I’ll send you down another blanket. It’s much colder to-day than it was yesterday.”
“It’s not weather-cold, sir, wi’ me. It’s grave-cold, sir. Blankets won’t do me no good, sir. I can’t get it out of my head how perishing cold I shall be when I’m under the mould, sir; though I oughtn’t to mind it when it’s the will o’ God. It’s only till the resurrection, sir.”
“But it’s not the will of God, Mrs Tomkins.”
“Ain’t it, sir? Sure I thought it was.”
“You believe in Jesus Christ, don’t you, Mrs Tomkins?”