The question was rather a relief, for a sense of being unreal had come over Lawrence while he spoke, and he answered quickly—
"No, I had rather not go yet, Wikkey: but you see I am well and strong. I think if I were ill like you I should like it; and you need not feel frightened, for the King will not leave you. He will be taking care of you all the time, and you will go to Him."
"Are you quite certain?"
No room for doubt here—and the answer came unhesitatingly—"Quite certain, Wikkey."
"And you are sure that you'll come too?"
"I wish I were half as certain," the young man thought, with a sigh, then said aloud—"If I try to obey the King I hope I shall."
"But you will try—you will, Lawrence!" cried Wikkey, passionately.
Very quietly and low Lawrence answered—"By God's help—Yes!" and he bent and kissed the child's forehead, as if to seal the vow.
Wikkey seemed satisfied, and in a few minutes was dozing again. He slept for an hour after being put to bed, but then grew restless, and the night passed wearily between intervals of heavy oppression—half-unconscious wakefulness and rambling, incoherent talk, sometimes of his street-life, of his broom, for which he felt about with weak, aimless hands, of cold and hunger; and then he would break out into murmuring complaints of Mrs. Skimmidge, when forbidden words would slip out, and even then the child's look of distress went to Lawrence's heart. But oftenest the wandering talk was of the incidents of the last few weeks, and over and over came the words—"See the King in his beauty."
In the morning Wikkey was quieter and perfectly sensible: but the pinched look on his face, and the heavy labored breathing, told plainly that he was sinking.