"Too late, too late! I'm too weak! I can't think! Don't talk to me any more."
Mildred's ear barely caught the faintly breathed words, and with the last the hollow eyes closed, whether in sleep she could not tell.
She found herself growing very weary, and the hands of the clock pointed to a half hour past the set time for her vigil. She stole softly into the next room, roused Claudina, and took her place.
Her last thought as she fell into a dreamless slumber was a prayer for the two for whom she had been so importunately pleading.
She had not slept more than a moment when a hand was laid on her shoulder, and Claudina's voice, trembling with fright, said, "Mildred, Mildred, O Mildred, she's gone!"
"Who?" she asked, starting up only half awake.
"Mrs. Martin. I was rubbing her, and she moaned out, 'I'm too weak. I can't think. I must wait till I'm stronger,' and with the last word turned her head, gasped once, and was gone."
Claudina shuddered and hid her face. "O Mildred," she whispered, "those words of our Saviour are ringing in my ears, 'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' As a girl her head was full of dress and beaux and having a good time; as a married woman—keeping the best table, the neatest house, and helping her husband to get on in the world. She had no time to think about her soul until sickness came, and then she said she was too weak, she must wait to grow stronger."
They clasped each other's hands and wept silently.
Presently there was a sound of some one moving about the kitchen. "The girl's up," said Claudina, rising from her kneeling posture beside the lounge. "I'll go and tell her, and she'll let Mr. Martin know. O, the poor, motherless baby!"