"Winifred," said the gentle voice, stronger to-night for the increased fever.
"Yes, dear mother?"
"Winnie, dear, would you be afraid if—if you were ill—like me?—if you were going to—"
"To die," she was about to say, but she could not speak the word. She shivered instead, as though a cold wind had struck her.
Winifred did not wait for the unwelcome word.
"No—I think not, mother," she said simply.
"Why not? Is it not dark—what we do not know?"
"But I know God," said Winifred earnestly, "and Jesus Christ. And they are there—in the things we cannot see. The Apostle Paul said, 'For me to live is Christ; to die is gain.'"
The words brought no comfort. "'To live is Christ,'" repeated the sick one musingly. "If that were so—?" she was silent for a few moments, and then broke out hopelessly: "No, no! To live has not been Christ! It has been myself, and you all, and these things! It is not gain to die! It is loss!—loss!—loss of everything I know!"
Her voice rose excitedly, and her glistening fevered eyes looked about restlessly. Winifred feared that the nurse would come, and finding her worse, end the interview. So she prayed that God would calm the dear patient and give them both His needed grace for the hour. And He heard.