He knew the end was approaching.
Molly stretched out to him one hand instead of two, as if her hold upon earth were half yielded.

He sat down by the bedside, and wiped his forehead with a sigh.
'Thee tired too, marquis ?' asked the odd little love-bird.
'Yes, I am tired, my Molly.

Thou seest I am so fat.' 'Shall I ask the good mother, when I go to her, to make thee spare like Molly ?' 'No, Molly, thou need'st not trouble her about that.

Ask her to make me good.' 'Would it then be easier to make thee good than to make thee spare, marquis ?' 'No, child--much harder, alas!' 'Then why-- ?' began Molly; but the marquis perceiving her thought, made haste to prevent it, for her breath was coming quick and weak.
'But it is so much better worth doing, you see.

If she makes me good, she will have another in heaven to be good to.' 'Then I know she will.