“But this confession—would she repeat it again?”
“I think she spoke of having it written out somewhere.”
“It must be well authenticated, you know. And—what steps have you considered?”
“None. Tomorrow will be Sunday—they will all go to church to give thanks; then on Christmas day they are to have a small family dinner. You and Mrs. Kendricks and myself, two or three dear old friends, and it would be hardly wise to mar the sacredness of the occasion. We may see our way more clearly, I would not like to have Miss Boyd disturbed on uncertainties.”
“I will take a further look at her,” said the doctor. “I have known cases like hers to last weeks, even when strength seemed to be almost gone.”
He wanted also to see Miss Boyd again. He had not noticed her critically. Mrs. Barrington had spoken of the likeness that had puzzled her in the beginning, the elusive resemblance to Mrs. Crawford in her girlhood, as for two years she had been at school. He paused at the door. She was standing by the window her profile distinctly outlined. It was classic, from the broad, shapely forehead, the down-dropped eyelids with their dark fringe, the straight nose with the fine, flexible nostrils, the rounded chin, the lips that seemed to shut in sadness and longing, but it was the poise of the head, the arching neck, the shoulders proud enough for a statue. It needed more real youthfulness for sixteen, but one could trace resemblances.
Did she feel the scrutiny? She turned. The front view was more girlish.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “mother is sleeping. Is it a bad sign for her to sleep so much?”
“It gives her rest and saves the wear on her nerves. You are a watchful nurse. Where did you learn so much?”
“I think it comes to you when one has done so much for you,” she answered quietly.