Silverbeach Manor by Margaret S. Haycraft

but
before the daylight dawns there is no need for any more anxious
watching, tender ministrations, hope or fear.
    At first
they spoke of sending for Pansy, but while Mrs. Adair had strength
to speak she told them not to stop the girl's pleasure -- it was
only a passing illness -- her constitution was marvellous, and she
would be at the fete again before it
closed. Pansy was to be summoned on no account whatever because her
nerves were far from strong, and she need not hear of the illness
till Mrs. Adair felt better.
    Now she lies
back utterly exhausted, her breathing slow and laboured, her lips
scarcely able to speak in a whisper they are only just able to
catch, "Pray, pray, pray."
    "She wants
somebody to pray, doctor," says the housekeeper, who has had leave
of absence for two or three days, and has returned to the Manor at
this time of suspense and extremity.
    "When will Sir
Silas Wynne be here?" says the doctor anxiously, longing for the
physician's arrival. He is a capable man himself and has done all
he can, but he wishes to share his responsibility with the great
man from Hanover Square.
    "Perhaps Sir
Silas was away from home when your telegram got there, sir," says
the housekeeper. "But, deary me, the poor lady's soul, sir. Won't
somebody see after the poor lady's soul?"
    The doctor
knows the housekeeper is a Roman Catholic, and is not surprised to
see her make the sign of the cross as she weeps beside the bed.
    "Let a
clergyman be fetched, of course," he answers. "Mrs. Adair evidently
wishes to hear prayers read, though I do not think myself she is in
such urgent extremity."
    The
patient cannot hear his words, but she tries to reach Lizzie
Russell's hand, and still her chill lips form that imploring word,
" Pray!'
    In the prayer
meetings of her own Bible class, Lizzie has felt shy at times to
pray aloud, but all self-consciousness vanishes as she kneels
beside the silken coverlet which covers a passing life. The doctor
looks greatly surprised, and the housekeeper quite scandalized at
the notion of a servant girl usurping the function of priest. But
Lizzie has clasped the damp hand in hers, and bent her head above
it, and the Saviour of rich and poor has His witness even in this
uncongenial atmosphere.
    She
falters, and the trembling hand tries to press her own in response.
"Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, look down on mistress now. Show her Thou
didst die for her upon the cross. Show her Thou art her Saviour,
her Hope, her Life. She is too weak to speak, dear Lord, but she
wants to see Thee, touch Thee, trust Thee. Thou wilt not cast her
out. Thou didst not cast me out. Take her
as she is, Lord Jesus. Make her clean in Thine own precious blood,
O Saviour of sinners, O Redeemer of the lost."
    "'Nothing in
my hands'" falters Mrs. Adair, a hymn they often sing at
Silverbeach Church coming as a dim memory to her mind. And Lizzie
takes up the cry, and speaks clearly, slowly, earnestly the verse:
"Nothing in my hands I bring, Simply to Thy Cross I cling."
    To the music
of that plea the dim eyes close on earth.

Chapter
9
    A Conditional Heritage
    LADY
Grace Summit has lent Pansy an evening dress, but the non-arrival
of her own clothing makes Pansy uneasy. She was not at all
surprised to find Mrs. Adair had tired of the fete and gone home, but she will not wait to
drive over to the fete after lunch with
Lady Grace, because she begins to think something may be wrong at
Silverbeach. After breakfasting in bed she accepts the offer of her
friend to drive her back to the Manor.
    A messenger
has already been sent for her, but has taken a short cut across the
fields and thus missed Lady Grace's carriage. Pansy makes her
adieux smilingly and unconsciously, and promises to be again at the
tent of roses early in the afternoon. The butler's face as he opens
the door at Silverbeach fairly alarms her, and the housekeeper
comes forward to meet her and draws her into the morning room,
breaking into lamentations.
    "She can only
have fainted,"