Chapter 8 - (VERSO)
of the bed; he looked through the open door to the remote, starlit night—and a horrible sense of
he utter helplessness overcame him. He could do nothing—nothing! In all his life he had never known such bitterness of soul as the realization brought home to him.
“What is the good of you if you can’t help me?” moaned the dying woman. “Pray—pray—pray”! she shrilled suddenly.
Mr. Leonard dropped on his knees by the bed. He did not know what to say. No prayer that he had ever prayed was of use here. The old, beautiful formulas, which had soothed and helped the passing
From "Each in His Own Tongue."