“Do you mean Grif?” said Aimée.
She made a weak gesture of assent.
“Yes,” Aimée answered. “He must have gone. I heard the bell ring, and found you lying here when I came to see what it meant.”
“Then,” said Dolly, “all is over,—all is over at last.” And she turned her face upon the cushion and lay so still that she scarcely seemed to breathe.
“Take another drink of water, Dolly,” said Aimée, keeping back her questions with her usual discretion. “You must, dear.”
But Dolly did not stir.
“I don't want any more,” she said. “I am not going to faint again. You have no need to be afraid. I don't easily faint, you know, and I should not have fainted just now only—that the day has been a very hard one for me, and somehow I lost strength all at once. I am not ill,—only worn out.”
“You must be very much worn out, then,” said Aimée; “more worn out than I ever saw you before. You had better let me help you up-stairs to bed.”
“I don't want to go to bed yet!” in a strange, choked voice, and the next moment Aimée saw her hands clench themselves and her whole frame begin to shake. “Shut the door and lock it,” she said, wildly. “I can't stop myself. Give me some sal volatile. I can't breathe.” And such a fit of suffocating sobbing came upon her that she writhed and battled for air.
Aimée flung herself upon her knees by her side, shedding tears herself.