But though drops of perspiration stood on the woman’s forehead, and her grip tore the pillow, she obstinately shook her head.
“I be better pretty soon,” was all she would say, and tried to smile at Susie.
“If only some one would come!” Dora went to the open window often and listened for Ralston’s voice or McArthur’s—the latter having gone for his mail.
The strain of watching the woman’s suffering told on both of the girls, and the night by her bedside seemed centuries long. Toward morning the paroxysms appeared to reach a climax and then to subside. They were of shorter duration, and the intervals between were longer.
“She’s better, I’m sure,” Dora said hopefully, but Susie shook her head.
“I don’t think so; she’s worse. There’s that look behind, back of her eyes—that dead look—can’t you see it? And it’s in her face, too. I don’t know how to say what I mean, but it’s there, and it makes me shiver like cold.” The girl looked in mingled awe and horror at the first human being she ever had seen die.
Unable to endure the strain any longer, Dora went into the fresh air, and Susie dropped on her knees by the bedside and took her mother’s limp hand in both of hers.
“Oh, Mother,” she begged pitifully, “say something. Don’t go away without sayin’ something to Susie!”
With an effort of will, the woman slowly opened her dull eyes and fixed them upon the child’s face.
“Yas,” she breathed; “I want to say something.”