“I wish that I could be where she is,” sighed Jacqueline.

“You?  You are tired, Jacqueline.  You look ill.  You will not be fit for to-morrow.  Come to bed.  It is late.”

As Jacqueline made no reply to this suggestion, Elsie began to reflect upon her words, and to consider wherefore and to whom she had spoken.  Not quite satisfied with herself could she have been, for at length she said in quite another manner,—­

“You always said, till now, you wished that you might live a hundred years.  But it was not because you were afraid to die, you said so, Jacqueline.”

“I don’t know,” was the answer,—­sadly spoken, “Don’t remind me of things I have said.  I seem to have lost myself.”

The voice and the words were effectual, if they were intended as an appeal to Elsie.  Fain would she now exclude the stage and the play from her thoughts,—­fain think and feel with Jacqueline, as it had long been her habit to do.

Jacqueline, however, was not eager to speak.  And Elsie must draw yet nearer to her, and make her nearness felt, ere she could hope to receive the thought of her friend.  By-and-by these words were uttered, solemn, slow, and dirge-like:—­

“Antonine died just after sundown.  I was alone with her.  She did not think that she would die so soon.  I did not.  In the morning, John Leclerc came in to inquire how she spent the night.  He prayed with her.  And a hymn,—­he read a hymn that she seemed to know, for all day she was humming it over.  I can say some of the lines.”

“Say them, Jacqueline,” said the softened voice of Elsie.

Slowly, and as one recalls that of which he is uncertain, Jacqueline repeated what I copy more entire:—­

  “In the midst of life, behold,
  Death hath girt us round! 
  Whom for help, then, shall we pray? 
  Where shall grace be found? 
  In thee, O Lord, alone! 
  We rue the evil we have done,
  That thy wrath on us hath drawn. 
  Holy Lord and God! 
  Strong and holy God! 
  Merciful and holy Saviour! 
  Eternal God! 
  Sink us not beneath
  Bitter pains of endless death! 
  Kyrie, eleison!”

“Then he went away,” she continued.  “But he did not think it was the last time he should speak to Antonine.  In the afternoon I thought I saw a change, and I wanted to go for somebody.  But she said, ’Stay with me.  I want nothing.’  So I sat by her bed.  At last she said, ’Come, Lord Jesus! come quickly!’ and she started up in her bed, as if she saw him coming.  And as if he were coming nearer, she smiled.  That was the last,—­without a struggle, or as much as a groan.”

“No priest there?” asked Elsie.