turn to Him only when she had desperate need. But none of these things made any difference. In her terror and anguish she prayed. God would hear her. He would know and understand if he were a good God.
Then suddenly she felt his hand relax ever so little, gently, and she said softly, "Philip! Philip!"
After a long silence, he said, "Yes . . . Mary," and pressed her hand feebly. "I'm here."
"Philip . . . I think there is to be a child. . . . You must live on his account."
"I'm glad, Mary . . . I mean to live. I mean to live."
She fell to praying again, and again she felt the thin hand relax. This time it slipped slowly from her cheek.
"Philip! Philip!"
He did not answer, and again she called, "Philip! Philip"
His eyes were closed, but he still breathed. She began to pray once more, pressing her body close to his. She never knew how long she knelt there, but presently she knew that the thin, brown hands were no longer hot. The fever had gone out of them, and she thought suddenly, "The thing has passed, and he is safe." But the coolness turned slowly to a strange dead chill. She raised her head and looked at him. He seemed asleep, but he was so still. She touched his face, and the head fell a little to one side. The mouth opened. And then she knew. . . .
Without a sound, she slipped to the dusty earth beside the cot. She tasted the earth with her lips, but she did not even raise her head.
