I uplift myself upon my elbow, and peer at her curiously. Her eyelids are crimson; her voice is full of the thick and husky sound that comes of much weeping.
"What has happened? Why am I here?" I repeat.
"You were not well, dearest. A mere faint—nothing more: but we thought you would feel better if kept quiet quiet. I was driving over to see you to day, and very fortunately arrived just as I was wanted. Lie down again and try to sleep."
"No, I cannot. What has vexed you mother? You have been crying."
"Oh, no, darling," in trembling tones; "you only imagine it. Perhaps it is the uncertain light."
"Nonsense," I insist angrily; "you know you have. I can see it in your eye, I can hear it in your voice. Why do you try to deceive me! Something has happened—I feel—it and you are keeping it from me. Let me think—-"
With a nervous gesture mother raises a cup from a table near, and puts it to my lips.
"Drink this first, and think afterwards," she says; "it will do you good."
"No, I shall think first. There is something weighing on my brain, and—on my heart. Why don't you help me to remember?"
I put my hands to my head in deep perplexity. Slowly, slowly the truth comes back to me; slowly all the past horrible scene revives itself.