It was quite late when they came up for Harrie. She had fallen into a sleep or faint, and the window had been open all the time. Her eyes burned sharply, and she complained of a chill, which did not leave her the next day nor the next.
One morning, at the breakfast-table, Miss Dallas calmly observed that she should go home on Friday.
Dr. Sharpe dropped his cup; Harrie wiped up the tea.
"My dear Miss Dallas—surely—we cannot let you go yet! Harrie! Can't you keep your friend?"
Harrie said the proper thing in a low tone. Pauline repeated her determination with much decision, and was afraid that her visit had been more of a burden than Harrie, with all her care, was able to bear. Dr. Sharpe pushed back his chair noisily, and left the room.
He went and stood by the parlor window. The man's face was white. What business had the days to close down before him like a granite wall, because a woman with long trains and white hands was going out of them? Harrie's patient voice came in through the open door:—
"Yes, yes, yes, Rocko; mother is tired to-day; wait a minute."
Pauline, sweeping by the piano, brushed the keys a little, and sang:—
"Drifting, drifting on and on,
Mast and oar and rudder gone,
Fatal danger for each one,
We helpless as in dreams."
What had he been about?