Even the sound of her breathing seemed to be saying the same words to me in the dark, silent night. "'One taken, another left; one taken, another left.'" And the steps of the passers-by in the street, when morning dawned, echoed the same words, "'One taken, another left.'"
But the words were to come true in a different way from what I had expected.
[CHAPTER XII.]
SALOME'S RECOVERY.
IT was the night on which Salome seemed most ill; indeed, her face looked so altered and strange, that I thought every breath might be her last. I felt sure that the angel of death was in the room that night.
He was in the room, but it was not for Salome that he had come. Little Jude was taken, and Salome was left. And two days afterwards the angel of death came again, and Bartholomew was taken; and then after a few more days, Simon and Thomas were taken, and still Salome was left. But the doctor still would give very little hope; she might pull through, he said, but he did not think it was likely that she would.
That was a terrible time for us all.
It was a terrible time for my poor father, for he loved his children very deeply, and after he and I had followed one little coffin after another to the grave, he would come home and sit for hours with his head resting on his hands, not speaking a word, but full of sorrowful thought.