"Will she die, Sir Charles?" asked Reg, in a feverish whisper.
"My dear young sir, there is no hope. She may recover consciousness, but if she does it will only be for a few moments. Doctor Carr will remain till the end;" and giving the young man's hand a sympathetic squeeze, while he brushed away something dangerously like a tear, he hurried away to his carriage.
They remained in the darkened room in anxious silence. Suddenly, the nurse moved to the bedside, and held up her hand in warning. The nervous tension of each watcher was extreme, that the movement seemed to give relief.
"Wyck! Wyck!" came from the lips of Amy, in a mournful whisper. "Wyck gone; Reg gone. Poor Amy."
"No, my darling," burst from Reg's lips, but the doctor held up a warning finger and hushed his impetuous outburst.
It was a terrible scene. To watch helplessly while a few stifled words broke in interjections from the dying girl's lips, and note the manifest struggle to give them utterance.
"Reg, Reg, forgive—forgive daddy, mammy! God—bless—you;" and with a convulsive shudder, her spirit had passed away.
Doctor Carr had seen many death-beds in his career, but never one so affecting as this. Kneeling by the bedside were the two old people, and a hale and hearty youth, sobbing as if their hearts were broken. He was about to leave the sombre chamber, when he was startled by a voice saying in loud, firm tones:
"I call God to witness and hear me swear. By the hand of this corpse, than which I hold nothing more sacred in this world, I, Reginald Morris, solemnly swear vengeance upon her murderer. Henceforth I have but one hope; henceforth I dedicate my fortune and my future to avenging Amy Johnson's death. Amen!"
A deep echoing "Amen" broke from Oliver Whyte, and the two men joined hands over the fair dead form each loved so much.