"Oh, I know," Stella said.
Yet she hung over the ayah's shoulder, for to-night of all nights she somehow felt that she could not tear herself away.
There had been a change during the day—a change so gradual as to be almost imperceptible save to her yearning eyes. She was certain that the baby was weaker. He had cried less, had, she believed, suffered less; and now he lay quite passive in the ayah's arms. Only by the feeble, fluttering breath that came and went so fitfully could she have told that the tiny spark yet lingered in the poor little wasted frame.
Major Ralston had told her earlier in the evening that he might go on in this state for days, but she did not think it probable. She was sure that every hour now brought an infinitesimal difference. She felt that the end was drawing near.
And so a great reluctance to go possessed her, even though she would be within call all night. She had a hungry longing to stay and watch the little unconscious face which would soon be gone from her sight. She wanted to hold each minute of the few hours left.
Very softly Peter came to her side. "My mem-sahib will rest?" he said wistfully.
She looked at him. His faithful eyes besought her like the eyes of a dog. Their dumb adoration somehow made her want to cry.
"If I could only stay to-night, Peter!" she said.
"Mem-sahib," he urged very pleadingly, "the baba sleeps now. It may be he will want you to-morrow. And if my mem-sahib has not slept she will be too weary then."
Again she knew that he spoke the truth. There had been times of late when she had been made aware of the fact that her strength was nearing its limit. She knew it would be sheer madness to neglect the warning lest, as Peter suggested, her baby's need of her outlasted her endurance. She must husband all the strength she had.