Then he went away and did not come so often after. And day by day Ina grew thinner and whiter, and her eyes got bigger and shone more, and she never made a sound except to whisper, "Poppy—sing, Poppy."
Poppy's voice had gone to a whisper too, then, and she could only make strange sounds in her throat; but Ina did not notice that.
The whole family used to creep into the room and stand round the cot, while Poppy sat there with Ina's hand in hers, whispering songs between the bars of the cot, while her head felt as though there were long sharp needles running through it, and her throat and body were full of horrible pains. Sometimes the room seemed all cloudy and she only faintly saw dead faces through the dimness; Ina and she whispering together seemed to be the only alive people in the world.
Even Aunt Lena's tongue was still those days, and forgot to abuse, but sometimes when Ina turned away from her, moaning for Poppy, the mother's eyes could be seen gleaming malignantly across the cot. Poppy glared back, for she had come to love little Ina so passionately that she could hardly bear anyone else to come near. No one had ever wanted Poppy and loved her before, and from her gratitude sprang a deep love for the sick child. All through the day she sat by the cot, even taking her food there, and at night she slept wrapt in a blanket on the floor or sitting in a chair by the bed.
One evening at nine o'clock Ina died.
Poppy had been singing a little Boer love song to her in a dreadful rustling voice, with face pressed against the cold bars and eyes shut, when she heard a gentle sigh that seemed to pass over her face like soft white feathers. She left off singing and peered down into the cot. The room was very dim, but she could see the little white face with the soft damp rings of hair round it, lying very still and with eyes closed.
"Ina," she whispered with a dreadful fear. "Ina, speak to Poppy—open eyes, darling."
But Ina never opened eyes or spoke again.