“It is impossible to tell. Here comes your dinner.”
He caught her arm, and gazed earnestly at her.
“Is your hair really so white, or is it merely an illusion of my inflamed eyes?”
“There is not a dark hair in my head; it is as white as snow.”
While the nurse prepared the food and arranged it on the table, Mrs. Carlyle hastily collected several articles scattered about the apartment, and softly opened the door.
Standing there a moment, she looked back at the figure comfortably elevated on pillows, and a long sigh of relief crossed her lips.
“Thank God! I have done my duty, and now he needs me no longer. Next time I see your face, Maurice Carlyle, I hope it will be at the last bar, in the final judgment; and then may the Lord have mercy upon us both.”
The words were breathed inaudibly, and, closing the door gently, she hurried down the steps and in the direction of a small room which Dr. Clingman had converted into an office.
As she entered, he looked up and pushed back his spectacles.