"Let death seize upon them, and let them go down quick into hell. For wickedness is in their dwellings."
Miss Temple was reading at our Lady's bedside, and her voice went on slowly, monotonously through the terrible minatory Psalms.
"Break their teeth, O God, in their mouths. Break out the great teeth of the young lions."
"Dear me," said Margaret, in her pillows; "how dreadfully uncomfortable."
"Not asleep yet?" asked the old woman, reproachfully.
"Not asleep yet"; Margaret uttered a quivering sigh. "Please, dearest, draw all the curtains back. If I could see the windows, I wouldn't think I was in the grave—that would be better."
Miss Temple laid her Bible reverently aside; then moving slowly across the room, drew back the curtains. The wreck of Whitehall had shattered all the glass, and now the windows were filled with oiled paper. The scarlet glare of the night shone fiercely in, the wind of the fire roared like a storm at sea. Miss Temple came back to her place, and our Lady reached out one shaking hand to feel a little comfort from her touch.
"Dearest," she whispered, "do you believe in ghosts?"
"We are forbidden," answered the governess, "to have any dealings with the departed."
"Hush, dearest; there's no need to be rude to these poor spirits, wrenched so suddenly from their bodies, taken all by surprise, shy at appearing undressed as it were, and they come here to see if their Queen cares. They come and go all night long, my dead; and they would think me so heartless if they found me asleep. I must not speak to them—that would be wrong—but they may hear me telling you that I care—I care—I care, and they will tell all the dead that I care."