Prin uttered a wail of distress and sank back on the pillow. All strength seemed to go from her.
She began to speak; but so faintly that Bert could hardly hear what she said.
"Oh," she murmured, "I can't think what made me do it. And she loved me so. You must take it back to her, Bert; you must tell her how sorry I am. Oh, I feel so ill. Am I going to die?"
"Oh no, not now, Prin," cried Bert; "you are better, I am sure. And the doctor will be here directly. He said he would look in again to-night."
"If he does not come soon, I shall die," she said faintly. "Oh, Bert, I don't want to die—I am so afraid!"
She would have said more, but utterance failed her. Her voice died away. She drew one deep breath, and then there was a stillness which appalled Bert. He bent over her in terror. He tried to force milk down her throat, but it ran out of her mouth as fast as he put it in. He laid his hand on her forehead, and it felt cold and clammy. He called to her loudly, but her ears were deaf to his cry.
Then his heart sank very low, and hope died within him. He caught up the candle, and held it so that its light fell full on Prin's face. The features were set, the eyes half-closed, the mouth a little open, and the countenance was ghastly in its pallor. Just so had he seen his father look when he was dead. So, it was all over. Prin too was dead! With a cry of despair, Bert cast himself face downwards on the bed.
He was roused by a resounding knock on the door. He started up in a dazed condition and went to open it. Two men stood at the foot of the steps. They were not attired as police officers, yet instinctively Bert divined their errand.
"There is a girl living here named Sinclair?" said one.
Bert made no reply.