She sang. Her voice was husky from crying. More than once it quavered and broke. But the song was one she had heard in the long, raftered living-room at Johnnie Blake's. And it soothed.
"Oh, it is not while beauty and youth are thine o-o-own,
And thy cheek is unstained by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be kno-o-own—"
It grew faint. It ended—in a long sigh. Then one small hand in the gentle make-believe grasp of another, she slept.
CHAPTER VII
Miss Royle looked sober as she sipped her orange-juice. And she cut off the top of her breakfast egg as noiselessly as possible. Her directions to Thomas, she half-whispered, or merely signaled them by a wave of her coffee-spoon. Now and then she glanced across the room to the white-and-gold bed. Then she beamed fondly.
As for Thomas, he fairly stole from tray to table, from table to tray, his face all concern. Occasionally, if his glance followed Miss Royle's, he smiled—a broad, sympathetic smile.
And Jane was subdued and solicitous. She sat beside the bed, holding a small hand—which from time to time she patted encouragingly.
After the storm, calm. The more tempestuous the storm, the more perfect the calm. This was the rule of the nursery. Gwendolyn, lying among the pillows, wished she could always feel weak and listless. It made everyone so kind.
"Thomas," said Miss Royle, as she folded her napkin and rustled to her feet, "you may call up the Riding School and say that Miss Gwendolyn will not ride to-day."