“Gwen,” she gasped in a weak voice, “I am going to leave you; and oh, I am so miserable about you! My pension dies with me. We have barely what will pay our bills in hand. There is my watch, and some ornaments; they will pay for—for the funeral—and—a——”
“Oh, don’t!” I sobbed. “You are going to get well. You must and shall get well.”
“You have only eleven pounds a year, Gwen,—oh, my poor, poor Gwen, what will you do? Oh, if your father and I could only have seen the future! And I have no friends! If it was next year, the Grahams and Murrays would be home. If only Lady Hildegarde——”
“Don’t mention her name,” I cried passionately. “And don’t trouble about me, darling. I shall manage. Think of nothing but yourself, and of getting well. You will, won’t you?”
“No; I’ve felt this coming for a long time. I am consumptive. The chill—oh! oh! this pain——”
“There, there! you shall not talk any more.”
“Oh, I must speak while I can—and I’m not afraid to go, Gwen. Why should I shrink from what all our beloved ones have passed through? Only for leaving you—dearest—dearest Gwen,” and her voice died away. I sat for a long time, holding her clammy hand in mine. “If the Chalgroves only knew!” she panted out.
I was silent. As far as I was concerned, they should never know, nor would I ever lift a finger to summon my grand relatives.
Her mind wandered a good deal. There were disjointed scraps of sentences, of songs, of prayers, and something about Lady Hildegarde and a merry Christmas; and I could not understand whether she was rambling or not, as she said—
“A happy new year, Gwen, and many of them.”