"But I must, boy. Don't hate me too much. I didn't mean to harm you. Some day—long after—you'll forgive me, won't you?"
"Oh, if you only won't die I'll forgive you anything."
"That's awfully nice of you, Willie," she said, with almost a smile. "I wonder if God will be as polite? They—they usually pray for dying people, don't they? I'm afraid they'll never get a doctor in time, to say nothing of a preacher. So you'd better pray for me, Willie."
The idea was so ridiculously tragic that she laughed; but he would not so far surrender her as to pray. He sobbed:
"You've got to live! I don't know a single prayer. You mustn't die, I tell you. You've got to live!" And he wept his little heart out as he knelt at her side, and, clinging to her hand, mumbled it with kisses.
She wept, too; moaned, and dreaded the black Beyond, which she must voyage prayerless. Still she must talk. From her silence came a frail, thin voice like a far-off cry.
"It's growing very dark, Willie—very dark! And I'm drifting, I wonder where? Can you hear my voice away off there? Better throw me a kiss, and wish me bon voyage! for this—is the last—of Persis. Poor Persis!"
Something of old habit reminded her of the gossip that would break into storm at her death. This spurred her heart to strive again. She clutched at the table and at Willie's arm and shoulder, and held herself erect as with claws, while she babbled:
"Willie, Willie, I've just thought. They'll try you for—for murder. The newspapers—the newspapers! Oh, my poor father! And they'll put you in jail! That mustn't happen to you—not to one of your family!—not through me!—no—no, it just mustn't! You must run—run—run!"
Enslee shivered at the future, and would have fled if he could have found the strength to rise from his knees.