“But look—look at her!”
“That is the pity of it.”
“Then I shall not hear her speak again; she will never see me?”
“Never.”
“But why? I cannot believe—”
“Dear, it is death—the way some children die.”
They stood silent, side by side. Then Catherine bent low; child’s mouth and mother’s mouth met in a long dream kiss. There was a sound of broken, troubled whispering in the room, a sound as of inarticulate tenderness and wordless prayer. Murchison’s right hand covered his face. His wife’s eyes and cheeks were wet with tears.
“Kate.”
She bowed herself over the child, and did not stir.
“No, no, these last hours, they are so precious.”