"I'll do what I can mother. See, you're wasting all your poor breath.
I'll do what I can. You say it all out, and don't tremble so, poor
mother."

"Hold my hands, then, child; look me in the face, say the words after
me--oh, my poor breath, my poor breath--God give me strength just to
say the words. Bet, you hear. Bet, say them after me--'From this moment
out I promise to take up with religion, so help me, Lord God Almighty!'"

The woman said the words eagerly, with sudden and intense fire and
passion; her whole soul was in them--her dying hands hurt the girl
with the firmness of their grip.

"Bet, Bet--you hain't spoke--you hain't spoke!"

"No, no, mother--I can't--not them words--no, mother."

Bet sat down again by the side of the bed; her face was buried in the
crimson counterpane; a dry moan or two escaped her lips.

"I'd do anything for mother--anything now as she's really going away,
but I couldn't take up with religion," she sobbed. "Oh, it's a
mistake--all a mistake, and it ain't meant for one like me. Why,
_I_, if I were religious--why, I'd have to turn into a hypocrite--why,--
I--I'd scorn myself. Yes, mother, what are you saying? Yes, mother, I'd
do anything to make your death-bed easy--anything but this."

Bet had fancied she had heard her mother speaking; the perfect stillness
now alarmed her far more than any words, and she lifted her head with
a start. Mrs. Granger was lying motionless, but she was neither dead