The first person that met him in the corridor was a boy of six years old, who was running at full speed after a little girl younger than himself.
“Shouldn’t I take the children to see their mamma?” asked the nurse.
“No, she doesn’t want to see them. It upsets her.”
The boy stood still for a moment, staring intently into his father’s face, then suddenly kicking up his foot, with a merry shriek he ran on.
“I’m pretending she’s my black horse, papa!” shouted the boy, pointing to his sister.
Meanwhile in the next room the cousin was sitting by the sick woman’s bedside, and trying by skilfully leading up to the subject to prepare her for the idea of death. The doctor was at the other window mixing a draught.
The sick woman, in a white dressing-gown, sat propped up with pillows in bed, and gazed at the cousin without speaking.
“Ah, my dear,” she said, suddenly interrupting her, “don’t try to prepare me. Don’t treat me as a child. I am a Christian. I know all about it. I know I haven’t long to live; I know that if my husband would have listened to me sooner, I should have been in Italy, and perhaps, most likely indeed, should have been quite well. Everyone told him so. But it can’t be helped, it seems that it was God’s will. We are all great sinners, I know that; but I put my trust in God’s mercy, to forgive all, surely, all. I try to understand myself. I, too, have sinned greatly, my dear. But, to make up, how I have suffered. I have tried to bear my sufferings with patience. …”
“Then may I send for the good father, my dear? You will feel all the easier after the sacrament,” said the cousin. The sick woman bowed her head in token of assent.