He was met at the door by Helen, her face all gentle commiseration. “I am sure that you have nothing good to tell me, Kit, but Anne?” she asked. He shook his head. “Not either sort of news. Of course there’s a chance she may pull through.” “Kit, don’t feel so sorry. I can’t bear to see it. But if you are sorry don’t exclude me as you do. What makes you? I’m not absolutely inhuman!” Helen smiled, but she looked hurt. “She’s a nice child. You don’t like children,” said Kit, dangerously near to rudeness. “It’s not excluding, Nell. What’s the use of talking about things, anyway?” Kit went upstairs, leaving Helen where she stood. As he went he was conscious that he would not have asked Anne Dallas what was the use of talking about things; he knew that it would be the greatest comfort to him to go to her and discuss little Anne and his recent thoughts. But, he reminded himself, this was explained by Anne’s love for the sick child. The next afternoon he did go to Richard Latham’s. He was shown directly into the peaceful room where Anne Dallas and the poet were sitting. “Do I interrupt work?” Kit asked, pausing in the doorway. “No, indeed; all done for to-day,” said Richard. “Kit, have you bad news?” he added. “Oh, your face says so!” exclaimed Anne; Richard had caught the note of strain in his voice. Kit came in and dropped heavily into a chair. “I don’t know; I suppose it is not anything portentous. They are waiting for the crisis, now; it’s near. Poor little girl!” He paused, and Richard patted him on the shoulder. “We are all broken up here, too,” he said. “But there is something else, some change?” Anne asked. “She was conscious this morning and in the night,” said Kit. “She has been conscious a good deal, they say. She asked what day this was, and when they said Thursday, she asked if it was Corpus Christi? I don’t know what that means, but----” “Yes, I do. I’ve seen it kept abroad, processions, and----” Richard began, but Kit interrupted him. “Well,” he said, indifferently. “But the point is that this was the day on which little Anne and some other children were to go to Communion for the first time, and that through her pain the poor mite had kept track of the days, somewhere in her fevered brain. And Joan told me that the priest came and she did--what do they say?--make her First Communion this morning. And afterward she said--isn’t this like her?--‛I didn’t know my white dress for to-day would be my nightie.’ That sort of broke me up.” Kit choked, and neither Anne nor Richard spoke. “Well, little Anne’s father and Antony Paul were to get flowers for her to give to the church. So they bought them for her room. Her mother took me up. It was full of flowers, but Anne was not conscious when I was there. They said she’d asked to have them taken to the church; Peter was going to take them. They--the priest--he gave her--what did Joan say? He anointed her for death. Little Anne!”