superstitious, but I would have done a great deal more for my mother than
eat bread and drink wine, provided that the eating and drinking did not,
by pretence of faith on my part, soil my honesty. At last a thought
struck me; there was Dean Stanley, my mother's favorite, a man known to
be of the broadest school within the Church of England; suppose I asked
him? I did not know him, though as a young child I had known his sister
as my mother's friend, and I felt the request would be something of an
impertinence. Yet there was just the chance that he might consent, and
then my darling's death-bed would be the easier. I told no one, but set
out resolutely for the Deanery, Westminster, timidly asked for the Dean,
and followed the servant upstairs with a very 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 right into mine.

Very falteringly I preferred my request, stating baldly that I was not a
believer in Christ, 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.

"You were quite right to come to me," he said as I concluded, in that
soft musical voice of his, his keen gaze having changed 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."