“She is dying. I got admittance two days ago.”
Betty went in, and as she halted on the threshold, her heart stood still.
Seated on the side of her bed, in her poor worn night-gown, was Moll Davenant, struggling for breath.
Betty ran to her, knelt down beside her, and drew a blanket about the shoulders and limbs; and, as she did so, she saw that her body was wasted as with old age. She saw also, with the quick sight that is given to us in emotional moments, that the place was well kept—proofs of the care of Babette’s hands were everywhere.
Moll Davenant stopped coughing, and a smile came into her eyes. She let Betty put her gently into the warm bed.
“Betty, dear heart,” said she—“kneel by my bed, that I may keep my hand on your head a little while.... I am broken—broken—wounded—dying.... But God in His mercy has sent you—and my feet have ceased to bleed—there are no thorns upon the road now—no roughnesses. I cease from stumbling. And there is the light—flashing up—from afar. And the song of birds. The spring must be coming.... I have nearly gone mad for want of you——”
“Sh-sh! Molly—I am here,” she said.
As Eustace Lovegood stepped to Molly’s bed, the others slipped quietly from the lamp-lit room....
The big man had been seated on the side of the bed some time, with Moll’s slender fingers in his great hand, when she awoke and found him there.
She leaped up and clasped her arms about him, as a frightened child runs and hides itself in its mother’s skirts.