“Will you send it, my dear?”
“Will I send it to the writers? Is that your wish? Yes, certainly.”
“You’ll not give it up to anyone but them?”
“No.”
“As you must grow old in time, and come to your dying hour, my dear, you’ll not give it up to anyone but them?”
“No. Most solemnly.”
“Never to the Parish!” with a convulsed struggle.
“No. Most solemnly.”
“Nor let the Parish touch me, not yet so much as look at me!” with another struggle.
“No. Faithfully.”
A look of thankfulness and triumph lights the worn old face.
The eyes, which have been darkly fixed upon the sky, turn with meaning in them towards the compassionate face from which the tears are dropping, and a smile is on the aged lips as they ask:
“What is your name, my dear?”
“My name is Lizzie Hexam.”
“I must be sore disfigured. Are you afraid to kiss me?”