said I; "and you know I ought to say my
prayers, for I've been dressed a long time."

The Major knelt simply by the bed. The other men, standing, bent their
heads, and Mr. Abercrombie, kneeling, buried his face on the end of the
bed and sobbed aloud.

Major Buller said the Lord's Prayer. I, believing it to be my duty, said
it also, and my father said it with us to the clause "For Thine is the
kingdom, the power, and the glory," when his voice failed, and I,
thinking he had forgotten (for I sometimes forgot in the middle of my
most familiar prayers and hymns), helped him--"Papa dear! _for ever and
ever_."

Still he was silent, and as I bent over him I heard one long-drawn
breath, and then his hands, which were enfolded with mine, fell apart.
The sunshine was now beginning to catch objects in the room, and a ray
lighted up my father's face, and showed a change that even I could see.
An officer standing at the head of the bed saw it also, and said
abruptly, "He's dead, Buller." And the Major, starting up, took me in
his arms, and carried me away.

I cried and struggled. I had a dim sense of what had happened, mixed
with an idea that these men were separating me from my father. I could
not be pacified till Mr. Abercrombie held out his arms for me. He was
more like a woman, and he was crying as well as I. I went to him and
buried my sobs on his shoulder. Mr. George (as I had long called him,
from finding his surname hard to utter) carried me into the passage and
walked up and down, comforting me.

"Is Papa really dead?" I at length found voice to ask.

"Yes, Margery dear. I'm so sorry."

"Will he go to Abraham's bosom, Mr. George?"

"Will he go _where_, Margery?"

"To Abraham's bosom, you know, where the poor beggar went that's lying
on the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear old
dogs."

Mr. Abercrombie's knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited.
Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to my
own. He said, "Oh yes, to be sure. Yes, dear."

"Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar?" I asked. "Do you
think the angels took them too?"

"I don't know," said Mr. George. "I hope they did."

There was a pause, and then I asked, in awe-struck tones, "Will the
angels fetch Papa, do you think?"

Mr. George had evidently decided to follow my theological lead, and he
replied, "Yes, Margery dear."

"Shall you see them?" I asked.

"No, no, Margery. I'm not go