“Forgive me, and come to Sydney.
“St. Quentin.”
This he directed to “Dr. and Mrs. Chichester” in full.
“Send it off as you pass the post office,” he said to Hugh, who took the form and went out silently.
It was the night after the arrival of Dr. and Mrs. Chichester.
All was very quiet in the nursery at the Vicarage. At the foot of the little iron cot knelt the Vicar, his face hidden in his hands. Hugh was bending over it, his arm under Pauly’s head, his eyes intently watching the worn baby face.
Dr. Lorry had been sent for to the Castle. Short as Sydney’s illness had been in comparison with little Pauly’s, its crisis had come to-night, and they knew that before the wet February dawn crept up into the sky they would see whether life or death were to be the girl’s portion.
“Put a light in the passage window next her room, if—when—she turns the corner,” Hugh had said to Dr. Lorry, when the old man was summoned to the Castle that evening. “I must stay with Pauly to-night, but—put a light in the window! I can see it from the Vicarage!”