“Sure—she’s going to!” he managed to say, with forced cheerfulness.
Queenie went sound asleep the minute her head touched the pillow, fortified by the belief that she would be awake at the crucial moment. But so tired was she from the exhaustion and strain of the last three or four days, that she slept more soundly than she had expected. The alarm went off unheeded; it was not until the morning sun streamed into the room that she finally opened her eyes. Then she jumped up in horror and remorse at her error. Suppose—suppose—that Marjorie had died!
She rushed out into the hall, flinging a kimona around her shoulders as she went, and almost bumped into Mrs. Wilkinson in the passageway. The mother’s face was haggard, but a great look of peace flooded it.
“Tell me! Tell me!” whispered the girl, clutching her arm.
“The crisis is past—and Marjorie’s alive!” replied Mrs. Wilkinson. “But so weak! She spoke once to me—calling ‘Mother,’ but she doesn’t seem to know anybody else.”
“Thank God!” breathed Queenie devoutly.
She went back into her room, and dressed. A deep feeling of thankfulness filled her heart; she made tremendous resolves as she went about her task, pledging herself to a veritable life of service. She would do anything, anything at all, that Marjorie asked, in the future.
The morning brought many visitors, inquiring for the sick girl, and many boxes of flowers. Queenie received them all, happier than she had ever been in her life before.
In the evening Mr. Richards came again, and took her for a ride. To him, too, she seemed like a totally different girl.
“You are ready to think about your own future now?” he asked, smiling at her gaiety.