Presently he saw that Mrs. Grumble was trying to lift herself up in bed. "I'm going now," she said. Her voice was low, but resonant. "Mrs. Wicket will look after you. She's a good woman, Mr. Jeminy. My mind's at peace. I never knew death was so simple and ordinary. It's almost like nothing."
She sank back; her voice gave out and she began to cough. "You will only tire yourself by talking," said Mr. Jeminy. "Rest now. Then in the morning . . ."
"No," said Mrs. Grumble faintly, "there'll be no morning for me, unless it's the morning of the Lord. Not where I'm going."
"You are going where I, too, must go," said Mr. Jeminy. "You are going a little before me. Soon I shall come hurrying after you."
"It's nearly over," said Mrs. Grumble. "I did what I could." Her mind began to wander; she spoke some words to herself.
"You, God," said Mr. Jeminy aloud, "this is your doing. Then come and be present; receive the forgiveness of this good woman, to whom you gave, in this life, poverty and sacrifice."
"Please," whispered Mrs. Grumble, "speak of God with more respect." They were her last words; it was the end. A spasm of coughing shook her; for a moment she seemed anxious to speak. But as Mr. Jeminy bent over her, her breath failed; her head fell back, and with a single, frightened glance, Mrs. Grumble passed away, without saying what she had intended.
Mr. Jeminy closed her eyes, and folded her hands across her breast. "She is gone already," he thought; "she is far away. She has pressed ahead, so swiftly, beyond sight or hearing."
He bent his head. "You made me comfortable in my life, Mrs. Grumble," he said, "yet at the end I could do nothing for you. But you will not think badly of me for that.
"Now you are hurrying through eternity. To you, these few slow hours before the dawn are no different from to-morrow or yesterday; they will never pass.