“She wants something, poor old soul,” he said. “What is it, Mrs. Stickly? What can we do for you?”
Maria’s cold, feeble hands came suddenly out from under the bed-clothes, and closed round one of his: she rallied all her strength, and raised herself a little; a light flickered for a moment in her eyes.
“I want my plate,” she gasped: “they’ve took away—my rosy plate—and they won’t give it back to me!”
“Well, to be sure, she’s at that old plate again,” said the nurse; and she began, half vexed and half laughing, to relate the story to the doctor.
Maria had fallen back on her pillows, but she still clung desperately to the doctor’s hand, and her gaze never left his face.
“I want my plate,” she repeated, when the nurse paused. “Do ’ee—ax ’em to give it to me.”
The doctor withdrew his hand, but very gently.
“In the name of heaven,” he cried, “give the poor old creature her plate! She hasn’t many hours to live.”
And so Maria’s last desperate appeal succeeded, and the doctor smiled as he saw how eagerly she hugged it to her withered bosom. He did not know that it represented for her Home, and all it had held of sweetness; that clasping it she possessed once more Youth, and Love, and Hope.
Once more he bent over her: