In this state she lay for an indefinite time—a period that had no human measurement. It seemed at once a day and a moment. No counted time could ever appear so like eternity.
At last there was a hand upon the door. Mr. Dugdale had come back. Agatha started up, and sat frozen. For her life she could not have uttered a sound. He took her hand, saying, gently:
“My dear child!”
Surely he could not have spoken so, if—No, in that case his lips would have been paralysed, like her own.
“We must bear up yet, little sister. There is a chance.”
The flood broke forth. Agatha flung herself on the sofa-cushions, sobbing, weeping, and laughing at once. Duke patted her on the shoulder, walked round her, stood eyeing her with his mild, investigating look, as if he were pondering some great new problem in human nature. Finally, he sat down beside her, and cried likewise.
Agatha for the first time spoke naturally. “Thank you, brother—you are a very good brother to me. Now, tell me everything.”
“Everything is but little. It's like hanging on a thread—but we'll hold on.”
“We will,” said Agatha, setting her lips together, and sitting down firmly to listen. She was in her right senses now. She had undergone the shock, and risen from it another woman.
“I wish you would make haste and tell me. You don't know how quiet I am now, nor how much I can bear—only tell me.”