"Yes," the young man answered, looking curiously at the four priests and the grave girl who was with them in her gay summer frock. "Miss Davies is there."
He was a big, young Scotsman, with a profound contempt for religion, but skilled and tender in his work, nevertheless.
"Will you come up?" Hibbert whispered, taking him a little apart from the others.
"I'd rather be excused, old man," he answered. "Call me if I'm wanted. I can't stand this mumbo-jumbo, you know!"
Hibbert nodded curtly. He understood the lad very well. "Will you follow me, Father?" he said to Blantyre.
Blantyre put on his surplice and stole. Then they all went silently up the wide stairs, with their soft carpet and carved balusters, into the darkened chamber of death.
The dying woman was propped up by pillows. Her face was the colour of grey linen, the fringes of hair she wore in health were gone.
A faint smile came to her lips. Then, as she saw Lucy, she called to her in a clear, thin voice that seemed as if it came from very far away.
"Kiss me, my dear," she said; "forgive me."
Lucy kissed the old, wrinkled face tenderly. Her tears fell upon it in a sacrament of forgiveness and holy amity.