“Helen, my child,” a weak voice called from the arm chair, “come near me—do not go far away—I feel ill—my child—it is so good to have you with me at the last—so good to know that you—will not go—a—”
He sank again into a stupor.
She slowly lifted her hand from his forehead where he had lovingly placed it. Her little figure trembled as a soul before the breath of Jehovah. She fell on her knees by the bedside, where her mother had taught her to pray. For an hour the duties fought bloodily over her heart, then she rose and went toward the stable.
Half an hour later Dr. Allerton heard a knock on his door. He saw her by the candle light.
“Helen, my child, what can—is he—dead?”
“Oh, Doctor,” she pleaded, piteously, “tell me what to do!”
“Trust, my child,” he said, seating her tenderly.
She told him all, and when it was done he encouraged her.
“How good it is to know that your brother is with him!”
“Tait? No, I have not even that comfort. He is in Virginia.”