woman did, and the beauty of it swelled in my throat like a sob.
“Last night he turned worse,” said Mrs. Doane, “and talked that wild! It was all about you, Miss Berrith, dear — about you and Mr. Sands — gettin’ married. Ain’t it funny he should have his heart set on a thing like that? But he has.”
I caught my breath, looking for a protest from Miss Berrith, but, to my amazement, she did not seem to have heard the words at all. She only held Mrs. Doane closer, and continued her little soothing murmur.
Then I found myself mechanically following them to the sick-room, and, a moment later, at the bedside of Darius, with the solemnity upon me that even a hint of death inspires.
In the midst of the large, old-fashioned four-poster, the boy looked as little as a baby. His face was very white and drawn, and his eyes were closed. On a low chair at his side was seated the village doctor, with his fingers
