Madame Duroc, recalled to herself by the pathetically feeble tones of Alide, no less than by Rahel's appeal, was able to conquer her momentary weakness.
"Nothing, my darling," she answered, with sufficient composure. "You have had a long sleep; I was watching you, and I woke you just then from a painful dream."
"Is that all?" asked Alide, wearily, again closing her eyes. "But, mamma," she began in a little while, "you were mistaken. I was not dreaming at all. I have been only resting for a long time. Oh, how tired I was! Why did you wake me?"
Madame Duroc tried to avoid answering her, and to quiet her into a natural slumber. During several minutes Alide lay apparently at rest, but all at once she turned, thoroughly awake, towards the other side of the bed, where her sister sat. "Rahel," she asked, with the suspicious curiosity of the sick, "why are you here at this hour? Is it not late night? What are you both watching me for? Am I ill?"
"No, sister," answered Rahel, soothingly. "You have been ill, but now you are going to be well. Will you drink this little glass of tea for us, and go to sleep again, Alide?"
"Why not?" asked Alide, like a child; and, swallowing the draught which Rahel gave her, she seemed to sink once more into unconsciousness.
But forgetfulness was no longer to be hers. As she lay with closed eyes, too tired to stir or speak, she lived over in her mind all the joy, the disappointment, the struggle, and the agony. Her whole frame ached with utter weariness, a dull, heavy pain oppressed her heart, and her brain felt on fire with the whirl of thoughts that wrought it into preternatural activity. If she could not find some relief from this internal fever, she felt that she should go mad. She raised her eyes and saw her mother and sister silently weeping; suddenly a yearning compassion opened the flood-gates of her heart, and she burst into tears.
"Oh, mamma, let me weep!" she cried, as her mother tried to soothe her, caressing her brow and tenderly kissing her burning eyelids. "It is almost as good as rest itself to be able to weep at last!"
When her paroxysm of grief passed over, she was almost lifeless with exhaustion. "I cannot even weep any more," said she; "and yet all is so sore about my heart. Everything seems dim and strange to me. I think I am going to leave you. Rahel, come closer to me, by mamma, that I may see you both."
Her words were scarcely audible, and were continually interrupted by a dry, hard sob. They each held one other cold, damp hands in theirs, kissing it and weeping over it.