“Yes.”

“Dare I lift you?”

“Not yet.”

“Not even lift your head to get it on my arm? I will do it by very gentle degrees. You shall hardly feel it.”

“Not yet. Paper. Letter.”

“This paper in your breast?”

“Bless ye!”

“Let me wet your lips again. Am I to open it? To read it?”

“Bless ye!”

She reads it with surprise, and looks down with a new expression and an added interest on the motionless face she kneels beside.