I went to a clergyman I knew well, and laid the case before him; as I expected, he refused to allow me to communicate.  I tried a second; the result was the same.  I was in despair; to me the service was foolish and superstitious, but I would have done a great deal more for my mother than eat bread and drink wine, provided that the eating and drinking did not, by pretence of faith on my part, soil my honesty.  At last a thought struck me; there was Dean Stanley, my mother’s favorite, a man known to be of the broadest school within the Church of England; suppose I asked him?  I did not know him, though as a young child I had known his sister as my mother’s friend, and I felt the request would be something of an impertinence.  Yet there was just the chance that he might consent, and then my darling’s death-bed would be the easier.  I told no one, but set out resolutely for the Deanery, Westminster, timidly asked for the Dean, and followed the servant upstairs with a very sinking heart.  I was left for a moment alone in the library, and then the Dean came in.  I don’t think I ever in my life felt more intensely uncomfortable than I did in that minute’s interval, as he stood waiting for me to speak, his clear, grave, piercing eyes gazing right into mine.

Very falteringly I preferred my request, stating baldly that I was not a believer in Christ, that my mother was dying, that she was fretting to take the Sacrament, that she would not take it unless I took it with her, that two clergymen had refused to allow me to take part in the service, that I had come to him in despair, feeling how great was the intrusion, but—­she was dying.

“You were quite right to come to me,” he said as I concluded, in that soft musical voice of his, his keen gaze having changed into one no less direct, but marvellously gentle:  “of course, I will go and see your mother, and I have little doubt that if you will not mind talking over your position with me, we may see our way clear to doing as your mother wishes.”

I could barely speak my thanks, so much did the kindly sympathy move me; the revulsion from the anxiety and fear of rebuff was strong enough to be almost pain.  But Dean Stanley did more than I asked.  He suggested that he should call that afternoon, and have a quiet chat with my mother, and then come again on the following day to administer the Sacrament.

“A stranger’s presence is always trying to a sick person,” he said, with rare delicacy of thought; “and joined to the excitement of the service it might be too much for your dear mother.  If I spend half-an-hour with her to-day, and administer the Sacrament to-morrow, it will, I think, be better for her.”