"All right. I'll put you there," he said.
"No, no, Jake." She stretched out a quick hand of protest; but there was no holding him off.
His arm was already about her; he lifted her to her feet. His face wore the old dominant look, yet with a subtle difference. His eyes held nought but kindness.
She yielded herself to him almost involuntarily. "I haven't been to bed for nearly a week," she said. "I've slept of course in snatches. I used to lie down in Uncle Edward's room. Poor dear old man! He wanted me so." Her eyes were full of tears. "I--I was with him when he died," she whispered. "We had arranged to have a nurse this morning, but the end came rather quickly. We knew his heart was weak. The doctor said--it was better for him really--that he went like that."
"Why didn't you send for me sooner?" Jake said.
Her pale face flushed. She turned it from him.
"I didn't think--you would want to come. It wasn't till--till I got frightened at the dreadful emptiness that--that--" She broke off, fighting with herself.
"All right. Don't try to tell me! I understand," he said soothingly. He went up the long, dim staircase with her, still strongly supporting her. He entered her room as one who had the right.
The tears were running down her face, for she could not check them. She attempted no remonstrance, suffering him like a forlorn child. And as though she had been a child, he ministered to her, waiting upon her, helping her, with a womanly intuition that robbed the situation of all difficulty, meeting her utter need with a simplicity and singleness of purpose that could not but achieve its end.
"You treat me as if--as if I were Bunny," she said once, smiling faintly through her tears.