"No," she said. "No. Becky, I promise to help you. But suppose Zalie, should she have a child, refused to give it up?"
Becky's face quivered.
"She won't las', Zalie won't." The stricken voice was as confident as if Zalie already lay dead. "Zalie ain't got stayin' powers, she ain't. She don have fever an' what-all—an' she won't las' long—she'll go on The Ship! But if you-all hide hit—so The Ship can't take hit—if you-all give hit hit's chance—then the curse will be broke."
There was pleading, renunciation, and command in the guttural voice:
"Becky, I will promise to help you. If there is a child and you renounce all claim to it, I will find a home for it. It shall have its chance. And now sit here and rest—I am going to bring some food to you."
Sister Angela arose and passed from the room. The doing of the kindly, commonplace thing restored her to her usual calm.
She was not gone long, but when she returned, bearing the tray, Becky had departed and the chair in which she had sat was still swaying.