the Church of England; suppose I asked him? I did not know him, and I
felt the request would be an impertinence; but there was just the
chance that he might consent, and what would I not do to make my
darling's death-bed easier? I said nothing to any one, but set out to
the Deanery, Westminster, timidly asked for the Dean, and followed the
servant upstairs with a sinking heart. I was left for a moment alone
in the library, and then the Dean came in. I don't think I ever in my
life felt more intensely uncomfortable than I did in that minute's
interval as he stood waiting for me to speak, his clear, grave,
piercing eyes gazing questioningly into mine. Very falteringly--it
must have been very clumsily--I preferred my request, stating boldly,
with abrupt honesty, that I was not a Christian, that my mother was
dying, that she was fretting to take the Sacrament, that she would not
take it unless I took it with her, that two clergymen had refused to
allow me to take part in the service, that I had come to him in
despair, feeling how great was the intrusion, but--she was dying.

His face changed to a great softness. "You were quite right to come to
me," he answered, in that low, musical voice of his, his keen gaze
having altered into one no less direct, but marvellously gentle. "Of
course I will go and see your mother, and I have little doubt that, if
you will not mind talking over your position with me, we may see our
way clear to doing as your mother wishes."

I could barely speak my thanks, so much did the kindly sympathy move
me; the revulsion from the anxiety and fear of rebuff was strong
enough to be almost pain. But Dean Stanley did more than I asked. He
suggested that he should call that afternoon, and have a quiet chat
with my mother, and then come again on the following day to administer
the Sacrament.