An expression of surprise stole over the child's wan face.
"I had forgotten," she replied, faintly, "I shall say them now." She folded her thin hands, her lips moved. "Our father who art in heaven," she said, and she began a prayer that was never finished upon earth.
The dread moment had come. The angel of death stood in that hushed room; swiftly and gently he fulfilled his errand, then departed, leaving all in silence, breathless and deep.
He knew it was all over. He rose; he closed the eyes, composed the slender limbs, then he sat down by his dead child, a desolate man—a heart-broken father. How long he sat thus he knew not; a knock at the door at length roused him. Mechanically he rose and went and opened. He saw a man who at once stepped in and closed the door, and before the man spoke, Jones knew his errand.
"It's all right," he said, "I know, the landlord could scarcely help it; come in."
The bailiff was a bluff, hearty-looking man; he gave Jones a sound slap on the shoulder.
"You are a trump! that's what you are," he said, with a big oath.
Jones did not answer, but showed his guest into the back parlour.
"Halloo! what's that?" cried the bailiff, attempting to raise the bed-curtain.
"Don't," said Jones, in a husky voice.