“Hush, daughter,” the parson pleaded.
Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.
“Have Nicholas come?” Elizabeth asked. “Haven’t he come yet?”
Aunt Esther shook her head.
“I wants un,” said Elizabeth, “when he’ve come.”
The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, 159 rough hand he held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he dropped it––and frowned.
“Woman,” he cried, in distress, “don’t you know that you are dying?”
Elizabeth’s glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; ’twas an apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.
“How is it with your soul?” he asked.
’Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls; but yet Elizabeth’s glance moved swiftly to the parson’s eyes, in a rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained, fascinated.