“Yes, yes. I’m glad you came. But now—”
“Emmie, I don’t like to ask you. Yes, I will. Pray with me a minute. When two or three are gathered together. Would you mind? You said once that you did believe in some universal power. Well, will you pray to that? I don’t know if I believe in much else myself. Everything is slipping from me.”
He sank upon his knees, and Emmie took the quilt from the bed and held it round him, kneeling by his side while he prayed. It was pitiful, heart-rending, the weak, weak voice quavering breathlessly in the silent night.
“O merciful God, make this thing true. O God of mercy grant our prayer. Have mercy on us, have mercy on us. Oh, spare my boy. Have mercy on my brave boy. Grant to us two who love him that he may come back to us safely.”
She got him into bed again, covered him warmly, and he feebly pressed her hand.
“Thank you, dear Emmie. That was kind of you. Yes, when two or three are gathered together. Very kind. But you are always kind.”
She stayed there for some time after he had fallen asleep, and then went back to her room. She was exhausted by the agitation that had been communicated to her; but before lying down she wrote a note in her memorandum book. “During the night of April 18-19, Mr. Dyke dreamed that he saw Tony,” and so on. Then, worn out, she slept deeply, dreamlessly.
Louisa, rousing her in the morning, said that Mr. Dyke was ill and Dr. Sturgess had been sent for.
The poor old man was light-headed, babbling confusedly, unable to recognize Emmie or anybody else; and Dr. Sturgess told her immediately that the illness could have but one termination.