“I’ve come to stay the evening, Timothy, to make up for running off this morning--I’ve come to stay till twelve o’clock.” “No!” “Yes. We’ll give Miss Rags an evening holiday, because she’s tired, you know.” “But--but she always stays, and she always sings the evening hymns for me.” “Do you wish to stay?” “Yes, I wish very much. I won’t have him much longer--not--not if you are going to take him away. He--he loves me. So few people ever do that.” “Then,” said he grimly, “you’ll have to sing the evening hymns for me as well as Timothy.” And she answered very quietly: “I sing the hymns to God.” CHAPTER XVIII So did Marigold pass through the second fire, and came out partly purified. Timothy lingered a few weeks in bed, suffering now more from actual weakness than pain, and every day for hours the doctor would come and sit with him. During this time Marigold would sit silently sewing at the foot of the bed, ready to smile if ever Patches looked at her--content to be ignored by the doctor, whom she felt came purposely for so long a period, so that she might slip further back in the child’s memory. It was a bitter thought to Marigold, yet she stifled it bravely. What a tale of silence those neat little stitches might have told! “I think, Princess,” said Alice one morning, “you ought to take a holiday to-day. You look simply worn out. We’ll have you ill next. Suppose you take a holiday to-day, and I’ll go in to Patches; he’ll take on properly if you’re laid up through him.” “I don’t think perhaps he’d care, Alice. He has taken so little notice of any one these last few days--except--except the doctor. But I cannot stay away; it can’t be much longer now. And I don’t know what I’ll do when he has gone. I’ve got so used to him, I love him so.” And so saying, she got up and went into the next cottage, for Patches had got past breakfasts now, and the nurse had had hers long since. She went upstairs with a curious tight feeling in her heart and throat, the little cottage seemed somehow so empty and forsaken and quiet, and even Patches’ breathing that met her on the stairs seemed different this morning. But when Marigold came to the door of the bedroom, she understood where the difference was. The little child was lying on his back, propped up with a pillow, and on his face were the unmistakable signs of fast-approaching death. The nurse was sitting watching him, and, as Marigold entered, she rose from her chair and came toward her softly. “I’m afraid he won’t last much longer--only an hour or two at most. He took this turn just after twelve last night.” “Why--why didn’t you come for me?” “The Master’s orders. No one was to be disturbed at night.” “And his mother--is she here?” “No--another order. She was not to be kept from her work on any account. I thought she would have wished to stay, but she did not seem to notice that the child was worse.” “Have you not been nervous all alone?”