"I'm not going to sleep. Cecile, will you sing that pretty song about glory? Mrs. Moseley used to sing it."
"That one about 'thousands of children?'" said Cecile.
"Yes—singing, 'Glory, glory, glory.'"
Cecile began. She sang a line or two, then she stopped. Maurice had fallen a little away from her. His mouth was partly open, his pretty eyes were closed fast and tight. Cecile called him, she shook him, she even cried over him, but all to no effect, he was fast asleep.
Yes, Maurice was asleep, and Cecile was holding him in her arms.
Joe was away? and Toby?—Cecile was not very sure where Toby was.
She and her little brother were alone, half buried in the snow. What a dreadful position! What a terrible danger!
Cecile kept repeating to herself, "Maurice is asleep, Maurice will never wake again. If I sleep I shall never wake again."
But the strange thing was that, realizing the danger, Cecile did not care. She was not anxious about Joe. She had no disposition to call to Toby. Even the purse of gold and the sacred promise became affairs of little moment. Everything grew dim to her—everything indifferent. She was only conscious of a sense of intense relief, only sure that the dreadful, dreadful pain from the cold in her legs was leaving her—that she, too, no longer felt the cold of the night. Jesus the Guide seemed very, very near, and she fancied that she heard "thousands of children" singing, "Glory, glory, glory."
Then she remembered no more.