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end. Oh, let me be buried in the king’s highway!”
When Oswald lifted her, or did anything for her now, she was careful to thank him in a guarded, sometimes a cringing tone. “It’s bitter enough that I should have to take service from you—you whom I have loved so well,” I heard her say to him.
When she asked us to use candles for light during our watches, and to have no more of the electric light she hated, she said accusingly, at him rather than to him: “At least let me die by candlelight; that is not too much to ask.”
Father Fay came to see her almost daily now. His visits were long, and she looked forward to them. I was, of course, not in her room when he was there, but if he met me in the corridor he stopped to speak to me, and once he walked down the street with me talking of her. He was a young man, with a fresh face and pleasant eyes, and he was deeply interested in Myra. “She’s a most unusual woman, Mrs. Henshawe,” he said when he was walking down the street beside me.
