less, like an animal
slain and falling with its full weight, crushing everything beneath it.
Perhaps she slept--she did not know. Martin seemed to be with her, and
against them was Aunt Anne, her back against the door, her hands
spread, refusing to let them pass. The room joined in the struggle, the
floor slipped beneath their tread, the curtain swayed forward and
caught them in its folds, the lamp flickered and flickered and
flickered ...

She was awake suddenly, quite acutely aware of danger. She rubbed her
eyes, turned, and in the dim shadow saw her aunt sitting up in bed, her
body drawn up to its intensest height, her hands pressing down, flat
upon the bed. Her eyes stared as though they would break down all
boundaries, but her lips trembled like the lips of a little child.

"Aunt Anne, what is it?" Maggie whispered.

"It's the pain--" Her voice was far away as though some one were
speaking from the passage outside the door. "It's the pain ... I can't
... much more ..."

Maggie remembered what Martha had told her about the drops. She found
the little green bottle, saw the glass by the side of it.

Suddenly she heard Aunt Anne: "Oh no ... Oh no! God I can't ... God, I
can't ... I can't."

Maggie bent over the bed; she put her hand behind her aunt's back and
could feel the whole body quivering, the flesh damp beneath the
night-dress. She steadied her, then put the glass to her lips.

The cry was now a little whisper. "No more ... I can ... no more." Then
more softly still: "Thy will, oh Lord. As thou wilt--Our Father, which
art in Heaven, Hallowed ... Hallowed ... Hallowed..."

She sank down on to her pillows.

"Is it better?" Maggie asked.

Her aunt caught her hand.

"You mustn't leave me. I shan't live long, but you must stay with me
until I go. Promise me! Promise me!"

"No, I can't promise," said Maggie.

"You must stay. You must stay."

"No I can't promise." Then suddenly kneeling down by the bed she put
her hand on the other's arm: "Aunt Anne, I'll do anything for
you--anything--to make you better--if I can help ... but not a promise,
I can't promise."

"Ah, but you will stay," Aunt Anne's whisper trembled with its
certainty.

That seemed the climax of the night to Maggie then. She felt that she
was indeed held for eternity by the house, the Chapel, and something
beyond the Chapel. The scent of the medicine, the closeness of the
room, the darkness and the sickness, seemed to close all about