Aldyth did not linger long below. It was with a feeling of awe that was almost dread she entered the darkened room where the old man lay. She had never been brought into close contact with death, and she felt instinctively that this was the chamber of death.
Miss Lorraine, quiet and watchful, sat at one side of the bed, the old housekeeper at the other. Between them lay the stricken man, his face strangely altered, the pupils of the eyes contracted, the expression one of deep distress, whilst he babbled inarticulately, and his hands restlessly roamed over the coverlid.
"Do not be frightened, dear," said her aunt, coming to meet Aldyth, and leading her to the bedside. "I am glad you have come, for he has mentioned you several times. There—'Aldyth,' he said. Did you not hear it?"
But Aldyth, unaccustomed to illness, could make nothing of his incoherent utterances.
"Aldyth," he said.
"Bring Aldyth," repeated Miss Lorraine. "Speak to him, dear; let him know you are here."
"Uncle," said Aldyth, bending down to him and speaking very clearly; "uncle, I am here. Do you understand? It's Aldyth."
"Ay, Aldyth," he murmured; "Aldyth and Guy. Bring Aldyth; I want her."
"I am here, uncle," Aldyth said again. "Is there anything you wish to say to me?"
"Ay, I want Aldyth," he murmured. "I want to explain—Aldyth and Guy—Guy and Aldyth—the two children are always together. Tell her—" Again he sank into confused babblings. Presently his voice was raised again, and even Aldyth could distinguish the words, "Bring Aldyth—I want her."