Dorset went away with the message.
And in about ten minutes, Drusilla, pale, drooping and woe-worn, entered the room.
Alexander arose and took her in his arms and silently folded her to his bosom. And she bowed her head upon his shoulder and wept softly.
“My poor child! My poor, dear child, you don’t know how sorry I am for you,” said Alexander, tenderly caressing her, and repeating the same words over and over again, until at length through her sobs and tears she answered them.
“Yes I do; oh, yes indeed I do know how good you are and how much you pity us both—poor mother, dying as she did, and—me too.”
“My dear Drusilla, you shall never want a friend while I live, or a home while I have one,” he murmured, smoothing her disordered hair with his hand.
“I know that too. It is not that. I am not afraid. But oh! if I had not slept that night, perhaps she would not have died,” cried the girl, breaking into fresh and passionate sobs and tears.
“Drusilla, my dearest, you talk wildly,” he said, trying to soothe her.
“Oh, no, no, no, I know what I am saying. If I had only sat up and watched her that night, I might have seen the change and saved her life.”
“But, Drusilla, I learn that your poor mother was in her usual health of body when she went to bed.”