“You had better see her now—while—while she—while she still lives.”
“Is she conscious?” groaned Justin.
Elfie shook her head.
“Oh, how—how did she take this fatal fever?” inquired Justin, as he arose to follow his conductor.
“How? Can you doubt? By her unremitted devotion to the soldiers in the hospitals. Oh, Justin, Justin! If ever yet a young saint won a crown of martyrdom, your sister will. She visited the fever wards that every one else except surgeons and nurses avoided. She ministered to scores of the fever-stricken, and comforted and saved many. But now, you will see the end.”
As Elfie murmured these last words they reached the door of Erminie’s chamber, which had been left standing open for the freer ventilation of the room.
“Come in,” said Elfie, leading the way.
Justin, with a depressed and reverend bearing, followed Elfie up to the bedside of his sister.
Dr. Sales and Catherine were in attendance, but both silently made way for the afflicted brother, who now stood gazing upon the wreck of his beautiful only sister.
There she lay, still, white, cold and almost lifeless as marble.