"We do not think there will be any return of consciousness," the doctors said, "but we cannot tell."
No; no one could tell. And so the sad hours of the night passed, and the dawn broke over the familiar fields, and Fair Acres smiled in the first bright rays of the morning.
Piers had slept curled up in his window-seat, worn out with grief. Mrs. Falconer, too, had slept in an upright position, her head resting against the back of the chair, sleeping for sorrow.
But Joyce did not sleep; she kept watch, hoping, praying for one word of farewell.
As the first sunbeam slanted through the casement, her father opened his eyes, and fastened them on Joyce. "Sunshine," he said, with a faint smile. "Dear child."
"Dearest father, dear father!"
"I hope my little girl will be named after my mother, Joyce. Yes, it is an old-world name, but I fancy it; name her Joyce."
The sound of his master's voice roused Duke, who pricked his ears and came to the bedside. Mrs. Falconer also started and awoke.
"There is a word I cannot catch, about the Life. Try to think of it. I can't."
Joyce glanced at her mother.