Her eyelids fell wearily. Without lifting them she went on: “How did you find me? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m so tired—too tired to listen.”
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“No—the cough seems to be gone. I’m not going to get well—am I?” She asked as if she did not care to hear the answer.
He sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked her forehead. She smiled and looked at him gratefully. “I feel so—so safe,” she said. “It is good to have you here. But—oh, I’m so, so tired. I want to rest—and rest—and rest.”
“I’ll sit here.” He took her hand. “You may go to sleep. I’ll not leave you.”
“I know you won’t. You always do what you say you’ll do.” She ended sleepily and her breath came in swift, heavy sighs with a rattling in the throat. But she soon woke again. “I’m tired,” she said. “Something—I guess it’s life—seems to be oozing out of my veins. I’m so tired, but so comfortable. I feel as if I were going to sleep and nobody, nothing would ever, ever wake me.”
He thought she was once more asleep, until she said suddenly: “I was going to write it, but my head whirled so—he stole everything but some notes I had in my stocking. But I don’t care now. I don’t forgive him—I just don’t care. What was I saying—yes—about—about Mary. She’s yours as well as mine, Robert—really, truly, yours. I made you doubt—because—I don’t know—partly because I thought you’d be better off without us—then, afterward, I didn’t want you to care any more for her than you did. You believe me, Robert?”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.”
“And you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive—nothing.”