Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“Oh, Miss Julia, Miss Julia, pray, pray don’t!” sobbed Polly.

“Mine died – years ago – died too – they took it – took it away. I thought if I could get – get as far – you would – ”

She stopped speaking, and raised herself in the chair, holding tightly by Polly Morrison’s hands, and gazing wildly round the room.

“Miss Julia!”

“Is it dreaming?” she cried, in a hoarse loud voice. “No, no,” she said softly, and the slow, weary, hesitating syllables dropped faintly again from her thin, pale lips. “I – tried – so hard – I want to – to see – that little little grave – Polly – the little one – asleep.”

“Miss Julia! Oh, my dear, my dear.”

“For – I’m – I’m tired, dear. Let – let me – see it, Polly – let me go – to sleep.”

“Miss Julia – Miss Julia! Help! Tom – Tom! Quick – help! Oh! my God!”

As wild and passionate a cry as ever rose to heaven for help, but it was not answered.

And the Rev. Lawrence Paulby stood amidst the crowd that thronged Lawford churchyard, – a hushed, bare-headed crowd, – but his voice became inaudible as he tried to repeat the last words of the service beside poor Julia’s grave.

The End