"Papa," answered Bea, catching the words, "He was up there the day before he—died, and I remember when he came down with what he wanted, he said that he had gone clear to the bottom of the big box for it, and that he would put things back, and nail it up when he came back home, and they were all left just that way, mama; and oh—please tell me—is it true?"
"Yes, Beatrice, it is true, too true," answered Mrs. Dering, sadly, then went up stairs, and left Bea sobbing on the lounge.
In just a few minutes Kittie came running in, and paused astonished at the sitting-room door, but as she surveyed her sister, and heard how bitterly she was sobbing, she went in and knelt by the lounge.
"Bea, can't you tell me yet, what the matter is?"
"No-o," sobbed Bea.
"Well, please tell me just one thing: I'm so frightened about something, I don't know what. But, is Ernestine very very sick, and is that what you are crying about? or—or, has something happened that we don't know anything about? Please tell me just this, Bea, and I won't ask any more."
"Yes, something has," was Bea's answer; and Kittie went sorrowfully away to tell Kat and Olive not to rejoice so much, yet.
It was quite late that night, and every one had gone to bed, except Mrs. Dering, who sat sleeplessly beside the bed, holding Ernestine's hot hand, and Bea, who nestled quietly in a large rocking chair, equally sleepless, and looking alternately from the loving, watchful face of mother, to the flushed, restless one on the pillow, while the big tears dropped unheeded down her cheeks.
The doctor had said, on leaving in the evening, that when Ernestine awoke, she would be herself, and for some time Mrs. Dering had been watching the feverish flush give way to pallor, and the restless, uneasy tossing to quiet slumber, and she knew, that before long, Ernestine would be herself, and ask a dreaded question. The house was painfully still. Bea shivered as the clock's ticking sounded loudly through the halls, and thought of last night when they all stood there, in that same room, and wondered where Ernestine was; and Mrs. Dering shivered, though, for quite another reason, for her mind held far different memories.
Just then, Ernestine turned, as though awakening, and the clock began to strike twelve. Through the dozen slow strokes she did not move again, but the moment they ceased, she moaned just a little bit, in a feeble, tired way, and opened her eyes.