“I am safe here,” was her last benumbed thought. “When I am found dead at the foot of the Cross, it will be by some of my own sort; some of the working people who work among the lights yonder. I cannot see the lighted windows now, but they are there. I am thankful for all!”
The darkness gone, and a face bending down.
“It cannot be the boofer lady?”
“I don’t understand what you say. Let me wet your lips again with this brandy. I have been away to fetch it. Did you think that I was long gone?”
It is as the face of a woman, shaded by a quantity of rich dark hair. It is the earnest face of a woman who is young and handsome. But all is over with me on earth, and this must be an Angel.
“Have I been long dead?”
“I don’t understand what you say. Let me wet your lips again. I hurried all I could, and brought no one back with me, lest you should die of the shock of strangers.”
“Am I not dead?”
“I cannot understand what you say. Your voice is so low and broken that I cannot hear you. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I was coming from my work just now, along the path outside (I was up with the night-hands last night), and I heard a groan, and found you lying here.”