But it was a terribly hard matter to fight through at first. Of course, as the girl had become weaker she had lost power over herself. She was restless and listless by turns. Sometimes she started at every sound, and again she lay with closed eyes for hours, dozing the day away. The mere sight of her in this latter state threw poor Phemie into an agony of terror and distress.
“It is so like Death,” she would say to Aimée. “It seems as if we could never rouse her again.”
And then again she would rally a little, and at such times she would insist upon being propped up and allowed to talk, and her eyes would grow large and bright, and a spot of hectic color would burn on her cheeks. She did not even mention her trouble during the first two days of Aimée's visit, but on the third afternoon she surprised her by broaching the subject suddenly. She had been dozing, and on awakening she began to talk.
“Aimée,” she said, “where is Miss MacDowlas?”
“In her room. I persuaded her to go and lie down.”
“I am very glad,” quietly. “I want to do something particular. I want Grif's letters, Aimée.”
“Where are they?” Aimée asked.
“In a box in my trunk. I should like to have them now.”
Aimée brought them to her without comment. The box had not been large enough to hold them all, and there was an extra packet tied with that dear old stereotyped blue ribbon.
“What a many there are!” said Dolly, when she came to the couch with them. “You will have to sit down by me and hold some of them. One can write a great many letters in seven years.”