"They are lovely, aren't they?" she said. "Mr. Stanford sent them to me this morning." He looked at her until her eyes fell. Then he laid the rose on the table near the hand which had given it to him, and without further speech went out. XXIV FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL, AND EVER Richard II., ii. 2. Although Ashe had said that he should not go again to the poverty-stricken dwelling of Mrs. Murphy, he found himself a few days later beside her bed. Word had been brought to him that she was dying, and that she begged to see him before her death. There was no resisting a call like this, and on a gloomy afternoon he had gone down to the dingy court, torn by memories and worn with inward struggles. He found the old woman almost speechless with weakness. The room was more comfortable, and he knew that Maurice had been at work. The slatternly girl was in attendance, and there was also the pleasant-faced priest whom Philip and Maurice had encountered in the court. The priest had come with an acolyte to administer the last rites, and the woman had made her confession. So intent, however, was Mrs. Murphy upon the purpose for which she had summoned Ashe that she cried out to him as he entered, and apparently for the moment forgot all else. Ashe looked at the priest in apology, but the latter said kindly:-- "Let her speak to you, and then she will be done with things of this earth." It was the safety of her husband for which the poor creature was concerned. It was on her mind that Ashe and Mrs. Fenton could save him from punishment if they chose. She pleaded piteously with Philip to have the prisoner set free. "He'll be all alone of me," she moaned. "That'll be more punishment than you're thinking, your riverince. He'll come out of jail sober, and he'll remember how he had me to do for him night and day these long years. He'll not be liking that, your riverince; and he'll be uneasy to think maybe he had some small thing to do with it himself. Not that I say he did," she added hastily. "His little fun wouldn't be the cause of harm to me as is used to his ways, but maybe he'll be after thinking so. It's the fever I have, from poor living, and maybe from being so long without Tim and worrying the heart out of my body for him, and he there in jail. Only if you'll promise to let him go, you and the sweet lady that very likely didn't know his pleasant ways when he had a drop too much, you'd make it easier dying without him." She gasped out her words as if every syllable were an effort, her eyes appealing with a wildness which touched his heart. The girl went to the bed and leaned over, taking in hers the thin, withered hand. "There, there, Mrs. Murphy," she said, "of course the gentleman'll do it. He couldn't have the heart to resist your dying prayer."