Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her hand gently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes, continued:
"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering about my heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its last blow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish to live. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer hold me. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will only profit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all she has—and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I must ask you to do for me. I have only a hope—to you that hope is certainty. Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. You will stay here awhile?"
"Anything I can do for you is too little."
"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time is it?"
"Half past eleven."
"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of tea for you."
"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she is now."
Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" she asked gently.
"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burton will stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself. The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."