"I do try," said the woman, meekly; "and you, will you pray for me?"
"Gladly, if you wish," said Clemence, sinking down beside the couch.
"There, I feel stronger now," said the invalid. "You must surely have been sent by God to comfort me."
Clemence's face was radiant with a light that told whence came her pure joy. She glided around softly, preparing a tempting supper out of the delicacies she had brought to the sick woman. Then she drew a chair again beside her, preparatory to a night of watching.
The woman fell into an uneasy slumber, and the hours waned, as the girl kept faithful "watch and ward." With the early morning light came a change.
"Ruth, run for the neighbors," said Clemence, in frightened tones. "Your mother is worse," and the half-dressed child fled out of the house, crying bitterly.
"Ruth, Ruth!" called the sufferer, "my poor darling."
Clemence came to her side, "I sent her after Mrs Deane," she said, soothingly, "she will be back in a few moments."
"It will be too late. I am going—oh, Father, forgive me? I cannot die in peace—my little Ruth, my little, helpless, confiding daughter, child of my love, I cannot leave her."
The great, hollow eyes fastened themselves imploringly on her face. The young watcher felt as if the minutes were hours. She listened for the footsteps that came not. The woman's breath came quick in little gasps. She tried to speak, turned on her pillow and uttered a feeble word of anguish. Her eyes again sought the face of the young watcher, and she strove again to syllable incoherent questions. Clemence came nearer and bent over her, asking in earnest, agitated tones,