It was the phrase Mrs. Macdonald used as she brought in the breakfast for Paul and Sally that morning, and the tears ran down her cheeks as she said it.
"There may be some mistake, Mrs. Macdonald," said Paul, gently. "There are other children ill in the place besides Kitty."
"No, sir; it's true enough. My John got up in the dark and went to ask for her; and he saw the nurse, who told him she was dying then. She could not last the hour."
"And the rector?" inquired Sally, who was crying quietly. "Did she mention him?"
"Miss Kitty lay in his arms, poor lamb! He's never had his clothes off since she was taken ill, and he would not let her be frightened; he'd hold her fast until He came to fetch her," said Mrs. Macdonald, with simple conviction that the Good Shepherd Himself would lift little Kitty straight from her father's arms into His own.
Late that afternoon Paul called at the rectory to leave a wreath of white flowers from Sally and a bunch of arums from himself; and the rector, who saw him pass the study window, opened the door to him.
"I've only brought a few flowers from Sally and me," said Paul, omitting the usual greeting.
Mr. Curzon looked down at them for a moment, fingering the card attached to Paul's spray with hands that trembled. On it was written "For Kitty, from one who loved her."
"Thank you," he answered with a smile that was more pathetic than tears. "She loved you, too, very dearly. Will you give her them yourself?"
But Paul drew back with a shiver.