When Pete went back into the room he found him struggling under the bedclothes, the sweat trickling down his face.
"Pete!" he cried chokingly—"I won't die!—I won't die!"
"And you wöan't, nuther," said Pete, soothing him.
"But I heard what the doctor said to you."
Pete was at a loss. He could lie if the lie were not too constructive, but in a case like this he was done for.
"Well, döan't you fret, nohow," he murmured tenderly.
But it was no good telling Albert not to fret. He threw himself from side to side in the bed, moaned, and almost raved. For months now he had known that he must die soon, but somehow the idea had not really come home to him till this moment. He would not let Pete leave him, though there was a load of mangolds to be brought in; he clung to his brother's hand like a child, and babbled of strange sins.
"I've been so wicked—I daren't die. I've been the lowest scum. I'm lost. Pete, I'm damned—I shall go to hell."
Albert had been known openly to scoff at hell, whereas Pete had never thought much about it. Now it confronted them both under a new aspect—the scoffer trembled and the thoughtless was preoccupied.
"Döan't fret," reiterated poor Pete, desperate under the fresh complication of theology, "I reckon you're not bad enough to go to hell, surelye."