Still he was silent, and as I bent over him I heard one long-drawn breath, and then his hands, which were enfolded with mine, fell apart. The sunshine was now beginning to catch objects in the room, and a ray lighted up my father’s face, and showed a change that even I could see. An officer standing at the head of the bed saw it also, and said abruptly, “He’s dead, Buller.” And the Major, starting up, took me in his arms, and carried me away.
I cried and struggled. I had a dim sense of what had happened, mixed with an idea that these men were separating me from my father. I could not be pacified till Mr. Abercrombie held out his arms for me. He was more like a woman, and he was crying as well as I. I went to him and buried my sobs on his shoulder. Mr. George (as I had long called him, from finding his surname hard to utter) carried me into the passage and walked up and down, comforting me.
“Is Papa really dead?” I at length found voice to ask.
“Yes, Margery dear. I’m so sorry.”
“Will he go to Abraham’s bosom, Mr. George?”
“Will he go where, Margery?”
“To Abraham’s bosom, you know, where the poor beggar went that’s lying on the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear old dogs.”
Mr. Abercrombie’s knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited. Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to my own. He said, “Oh yes, to be sure. Yes, dear.”
“Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar?” I asked. “Do you think the angels took them too?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. George. “I hope they did.”