Another voice sounded from the foot of Michael's pallet. It was the Scottish surgeon saying, "Bring Mrs. Melbourne."

"You sent her home yourself, Dr. Kinlock," an orderly said doubtfully. "She was fair done up."

"She'll not forgive us if she learns that boy died like this. Go get her."

An indefinable time later, Michael heard the soft, distinctively feminine rustle of petticoats. He opened his eyes to see the silhouette of a woman picking her way through the barn. Beside her was the doctor, carrying a lantern.

"His name is Jem," the surgeon said in a low voice. "He's from somewhere in East Anglia. Suffolk, I think. The poor lad is gutshot and won't last much longer."

The woman nodded. Though Michael's vision was still blurred, he thought she had the dark hair and oval face of a Spaniard. Yet her voice was that of the lady who had brought water. "Jem, lad, is that you?"

The boy's monotonous calling for his mother stopped. With a quaver of desperate relief, he said, "Oh, Mam, Mam, I'm so glad you're here."

"I'm sorry it took so long, Jemmie." She knelt beside the boy's pallet, then bent and kissed his cheek.

"I knew you'd come." Jem reached clumsily for her hand. "I'm not afraid now that you're here. Please… stay with me."

She took his hand in hers. "Don't worry, lad. I won't leave you alone."

The surgeon hung the lantern from a nail above the boy's pallet, then withdrew. The woman-Mrs. Melbourne-sat in the straw against the wall and drew Jem's head onto her lap. He gave a deep sigh of contentment when she stroked his hair. She began to sing a gentle lullaby. Her voice never faltered, though tears glinted on her cheeks as Jem's life slowly ebbed away.

Michael closed his eyes, feeling better than before. Mrs. Melbourne's warmth and generous spirit were a reminder of all that was good and true. As long as earthly angels like her existed, life might be worth living.