Tim failed rapidly. The excitement of his dream and the moral struggle
through which he had passed had worn upon his enfeebled powers. On the
second day after his seizure the priest came from Tiverton to administer
the last rites. When this was over, Tim lay quiet, hardly seeming
alive. Thus he was when Springer, who drove over late in the afternoon,
came in to see him.
"Tim," Springer said, "Mrs. Dooling has told me what you have done. The
ground you lie in will make little difference to a man that would do a
thing so white as that."
"Thank you kindly," Tim answered, in the shadow of a voice. "Father
O'Connor's promised to bless my grave. It's not the same as being at
Tiverton where the ground would be soaked with the blessing all round,
but leastways St. Peter 'll not be after flinging it in my face that the
blood of the child's on me."
The Overseer regarded him with such tenderness as did not often shine
within the doors of the poor-farm.
"Tim," he said, leaning forward as if he were half ashamed of his good
impulse, "don't worry any more. I'll pay for your grave at Tiverton, and
see that you are put in it."
The old pauper turned upon him a glance of positive rapture. He clasped
his thin, withered hands, trembling like rushes in the winds of autumn.
"Holy and Blessed Virgin," he prayed, almost with a sob, "be good to him
for giving a poor old dying creature the wish of his heart! Blessed St.
Peter--"
But the rush of joy was too great. With a face of ecstasy the old man
died.