"Just a minute. Suppose you make some tea. I'd like a cup."
Happy to do something definite, more, to be told exactly what to do, Hilda began to make the tea.
Roger had come in and Anne told him briefly what had happened and that she would stay a day or two. He was not to phone as the bell might disturb James and the doctor had said he was to have absolute quiet. She would phone instead, the following evening.
The tea was made and they drank it, Hilda's spirit reviving in bounds at the knowledge she was not to be left alone in her dilemma. Anne tried to talk of other things, but again and again Hilda came back to the question—had James Mitchell disposed of his insurance? At last they heard a sound from the sick room.
"He's waking, Anne. Don't—don't tell him you can't understand what he says—it seemed to vex him so. He——"
"I won't vex him." Now that she was about to see her father, changed perhaps almost beyond recognition, Anne's voice shook. At this sign of weakness Hilda began again to cry. Anne went quickly out of the room.
At the sound of some one entering, James Mitchell tried to turn his head. He was very weak, and his neck seemed twisted and stiff, but his eyes moved and when he saw who it was they lit faintly.
"Annie," he said in a low, thick tone, but much more clearly than she had expected.
She sat down on the bed-edge and took his hand in hers. It was strange to be taking her father's hand, offering him any physical demonstration of affection. As if the act generated the impulse, a welling pity rose in Anne. His fingers closed on hers and he tried to nod.
"Don't try to talk, papa. Just rest. It will do you lots of good."