The nurse that always had played so nicely with the tiny little girl was lying with her cheek in her hand over yonder.
The Grandmother who had always talked so much to the tiny little girl was not talking any more.
The tiny little girl was so sick that she only just could breathe quickly, just so—and just so—.
If Bessie Bell could remember that, it was only that she remembered the big white cat like a big soft dream. And she might have remembered how, now and then, the big cat put out a paw and touched the little girl's cheek, like a soft white dream-touch.
And that little girl had on a night-gown that was long, and soft, and white, and on that little white night-gown was worked, oh so carefully, in linen thread: "Bessie Bell."
Then the few people who walked about the world in Fever-time came in to that big house, and they took up that little tiny girl that breathed so softly and so quickly—just so!
And they read on her little white night-gown the words written with the linen thread: "Bessie Bell."
And they said: "Let us take this little girl with us."
They put a big soft white blanket around the little girl and walked out of the big house with her, someone carrying her in strong arms.
And the big white cat got down off the big white bed and rubbed himself against the bedpost, and went round and round the bed-post, and rubbed himself round and round the bed-post.