Suddenly, in the darkness, a little groping hand fell on his face.
"Are you there still?" asked Marie's voice, weak but clear.
"I am here still," he answered, taking the hand again in his own. The pulse was much better now. She continued, softly: "I feel stronger, but I was surely dying when you gave me the sweet, warm milk to drink. It put new life in my veins, but—" she paused as if a new thought had struck her mind.
"Well?" he said, gently, and she answered:
"I can not imagine where you found the milk. I hope you had some, too. It is so reviving. Did you?"
"Yes, plenty," he replied, with a shudder, and she said:
"I am so glad. But how dreary it is all in the dark! Sing again, please."
It had seemed to him a minute ago that he was almost too weak to speak, but he made a great effort to please her, although he knew that it would exhaust his strength all the sooner. He sung with all the power that remained in his weak lungs. In the darkness and the gloom, the dear old hymn, learned at his mother's knee in childhood, sounded sweetly solemn:
"Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!
"Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain—"