Tom heard no more. He could only listen to the soft, panting breath sinking lower and lower.
Suddenly the piteous eyes turned towards him—the stranger—as if in great dread: perhaps they saw in the mere human pity of his face what met some sharp last need.
He went to his old place as if in answer to the look, and took the poor little hand once more, closing the warmth of his own over its coldness. He was weeping like a child.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “—not afraid. It’s—it’s all right.”
And almost as he said it, with her eyes still fixed upon his own, and with her hand in his, she gave a low sob—and died.
Tom touched the kneeling man upon the shoulder.
“There’s no need of that now,” he said; “it’s over.”