She was absolutely docile, gladly relinquishing all responsibility. To Bunny she gave a few halting details of the old man's death, but she could not talk much. The strain of those days and nights of constant watching had brought her very near to a complete breakdown. She was so tired, so piteously tired.
She dozed presently, sitting there before the fire with him, holding his hand. It was so good to have him there, so good to feel that there was someone left to love her, to think for her, so good to know that Bunny--though he had ceased to be the one aim and end of her existence--had not drifted wholly out of her life.
It must have been more than an hour later that she was aroused by a few whispered words over her head, and sat up to see Bunny on his feet, preparing to take his departure.
She looked up in swift distress. "Oh, are you going? Must you go?"
"Yes, he must go," Jake said gently. "He'll get locked out if he doesn't. And the little chap's tired, you know, Maud. He's been travelling all day and wants a good night's rest."
That moved her. Though Bunny disclaimed fatigue she saw that he had been sleeping also. All the mother in her rose to the surface.
"Yes, of course, dear. You must go," she said. "I wish you could have slept here, but perhaps it's better you shouldn't. Can you find your way alone? Jake, won't you go with him?"
But Bunny strenuously refused Jake's escort. He bade her good night with warmth, and she saw that he hugged Jake at parting. And then the door closed upon him, and Jake's square figure came back alone.
He came straight to her, and bent over her. "My dear," he said, "you're tired to death. You must go to bed."
She shook her head, wanly smiling. "It's no good going to bed, Jake. I'm much happier here. Directly I lie down I am wide awake. Besides, I'm too tired to get there."