Angela went close to the bed.
"My dear one!" she whispered and slipped her arm under Meredith's head.
"It all seems so—plain in the morning, Sister. It is the night that makes us afraid. The night! I cannot remember—what it was—I dreamed."
"Never mind, little girl"—Angela's tears were dropping on the soft, smooth hair that was growing clammy; she felt the cold breath on her face—"never mind, little girl, the dream is past."
"Sister, it was a bad dream. I do not like bad dreams—tell Doris—what is it that I want you to tell Doris?"
"Try to sleep, beloved." Angela knelt.
Meredith slipped back to her childhood—she gave a short, hurting laugh. "Tell her—tell Doris—I did try to learn my lesson—but——"
It was the opening of the door that startled Angela into consciousness. Doris Fletcher stood within the room. Her eyes took in the scene, the pretty face against Sister Angela's bosom; the sunlight lying full across the bed and picking out into a gleam the golden cross that hung to the floor.
"I'm too—late!"
Agony rang in the quiet words.