Our Little Mary is Dying, Reverend

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Gledhill knew that Mary was dying. She seemed sure to die before the night was much older. A man of the cloth used to death and grieving might not save Mary but he would be able to soften the family’s grief. Death was a daily experience for parsons and Martin had been well provided with opportunities to serve the dying in the little parish of Holmeside where the Dark Angel was a regular visitor. Gledhill arrived at the imposing residence breathless. Mistress Joanne Martin, the vicar’s wife answered his frantic knock. She was a large woman with ruddy features, a shade acquired, it is told, from continually exhorting her husband to common sense. Gledhill’s presence on the doorstep disconcerted her. Working men rarely came to see the vicar. However, as was her wont, she quickly got over her surprise.
“What do you want, eh?” she asked coarsely, making it plain by her tone that whatever it was that he wanted he had come to the wrong place to find it.
“My little girl is dying, and my wife and children need comfort. I am here to ask if the reverend gentleman will attend.”
“Wait there. I’...

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