"Nay, I am well enough," she said, "but Rosamond, will you pray for me? My mind is distracted with all this work and worry, and I fear my prayers are of little value."
I told her I did not believe such distraction hurt our prayers, and reminded her of what Father Fabian had said about offering our work and our very distractions. She kissed me again and I went my way. That was the last time I ever saw her alive. She dropped that evening in the chapel, and died before midnight. It seemed the signal for a new outbreak of the disease. Three of my charge were attacked, and two died, and of the Sisters, three within the next three days. Mother Gabrielle was the last, and I do think she died as much as anything from sheer fatigue. I had no touch of the disorder, though I nursed all the children who had it, and also Sister Anne, whom we hoped at one time might recover; but she had a relapse, I think from getting up too soon, despite the warnings of Mother Mary Monica.
Now things have returned to their usual course, save that with the Bishop's approbation, we have kept the three children who survived, and have also taken in two more. Amice and I have the charge of teaching and overseeing them, under the real superintendence of Mother Gertrude and the nominal care of Mother Mary Monica, which mostly consists in telling them stories, cutting out figures, and begging off from pains and penalties. What a dear old grandmother she would have made!
I have heard but once from my friends in London, who are all well. My father is coming home in a few weeks.
[CHAPTER XVII.]
October 28.
AMICE, is sick—I don't know what ails her, but she has been growing thin and pale ever since the pestilence, and now she has been obliged to take to her bed. She does not suffer much, save from her weakness, which so affects her nerves that she can hardly bear any one in the room with her, but prefers to stay alone. The doctor says she is to have her way in all things—a sentence which always sounds to me like that of death. My heart is like to break with the thought, but there is no help. Nobody will ever know what she has been to me.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
All Saints' Day, Nov. 2.