The night was so warm that the child could take no hurt; and indeed what could hurt her, with the nameless fever-moth within, fretting a passage for the new winged body which, in the pains of a second birth, struggled to break from its dying chrysalis.
'Now, Molly, tell the horse to spout,' said lady Margaret, with such well-simulated cheerfulness as only mothers can put on with hearts ready to break.
'Mother Mary, tell the horse to spout,' said Molly; and up went the watery parabolas.
The old flame of delight flushed the child's cheek, like the flush in the heart of a white rose.

But it died almost instantly, and murmuring, 'Thanks, good madam!' whether to mother Mary or mother Margaret little mattered, Molly turned towards the bed, and her mother knew at her heart that the child sought her last sleep--as we call it, God forgive us our little faith! 'Madam!' panted the child, as she laid her down.
'Darling ?' said the mother.

'Madam, I would see my lord marquis.' 'I will send and ask him to come.' 'Let Robert say that Molly is going--going--where is Molly going, madam ?' 'Going to mother Mary, child,' answered lady Margaret, choking back the sobs that would have kept the tears company.

'And the good Jesu ?' 'Yes.'-- 'And the good God over all ?' 'Yes, yes.' 'I want to tell my lord marquis.

Pray, madam, let him come, and quickly.' His lordship entered, pale and panting.