Excerpt from The White Queen: A Tale of the Youth of St. Louis, King of France

The mother moved first. When the dawn stole through the chinks beneath the crazy door, she rose, stirred the dying fire, and felt for the hand of her child. It lay warm too warm within her own. Then the little one tossed on the trundle-bed, and in a hoarse voice asked for water. She was holding the cup to its lips when Jean the Miller roused from his straw close by, and the mother could guess his question before he uttered it.

"How is the sparrow, Brigite?"

"Hot; very hot."

"Have you slept?"

"Not I."

"What have you been doing, then?"

"Praying. I have vowed to St. Claire twelve tall candles of pure beeswax. She will not hear. The fever has not gone."

"Wet my forehead, sweet mother, - my forehead and my hands; they are like fire," pleaded the girl, - and again she tossed heavily. Then when she turned and saw the bar of light beneath the door, she tried to rise.

"Haste, - make haste, my mother.

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