The candle flickered up luridly. The weak voice of the old woman shook and the eyes lost the lustre.
"You must bide with her—at Trouble——"
Cynthia could not understand; she had never seen the light fade from the face of one she loved, so the fixed stare, the cessation of speech, did not alarm her.
"See, dear Aunt Ann, I will put my head down on your pillow, so! There now! Shut your eyes right close, and I'll sing you to sleep, honey."
The candle decided to splutter once more, and give up the struggle. The long wick curled over, the tiny beam faded, and was—gone.
Through the long night watches,
May Thine angels spread
Their white wings above me,
Watching round my bed.
Like a little mother crooning over her frightened child, Cynthia sang the words tenderly. Marcia Lowe had taught her the words and tune after her fright at the time of the fire. It had been Cynthia's first evening song; she had often quieted her sudden fears in the dark nights by repeating the tender words:
Through the long night watches——
and sleeping, surely with white wings above them, Ann Walden and Cynthia lay side by side when old Sally came to rouse them.
Shocked and frightened, Sally got Cynthia from the room without the girl realizing the conditions. Pacifying her by a promise to "take her turn" at the bedside, she left the girl in her own chamber while she ran, panting, stumbling—often pausing to rest—to Trouble Neck.