But Bram did not seem to hear her. He was staring into the unconscious face as if this was his last look on earth. He hung over her with all the agony of his long, faithful, unhappy love softening his own rugged face, and shining in his gray eyes.
“Oh, Claire, Claire, my little Claire, my darling, are you going away? Are you going to die?”
The words broke from his lips, hoarse, low, forced up from his heart. He did not know that he had uttered them; did not know that he was not alone with the sick girl. Joan, whose tears were running down her own face, suddenly broke into a loud sob, and shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“Put her down; do ee put her down,” she said peremptorily. “Do ye go for to think as your calling to her will do her any good? Goa ee for t’ doctor. And God forgive me for speaking harsh to ye, sir.”
“Oh Claire, Claire, my little Claire, are you going to die?”—Page 200.
And the good woman, seeing the strange alteration which came over Bram’s face as he raised his eyes from the girl’s face to hers as if he had come back from another world, changed her rough touch to a gentle pat of his shoulder, and turned away sobbing.
Bram lifted Claire from the floor with the easy strength of which his spare, lean frame gave no promise, and placed her tenderly on the bed. Then he held one of her hands for a moment, leaned over her, and kissed her forehead with the lingering but calm tenderness of a mother to her babe.
“A’ reght,” muttered he to Joan, falling once more into the broad Yorkshire he had dropped for so long, “Ah’m going.”