“I should like you to promise,” said Dolly, wistfully, to Miss MacDowlas. “It would make me so much happier. You have been so kind to me,—I am sure you will be kind to him,—poor Grif,—poor fellow!”
Miss MacDowlas bent over her, touched to the heart.
“My dear,” she said, “he shall never want help again. He must have been worthy of so much love, or he would never have won it. I owe him some recompense, too. If I had not been so stupidly blind I might have saved you both all this pain. I have grown very fond of you, Dolly,” she ended; and then, being quite overcome, she kissed the pretty hair suddenly, gave the thin hand an almost motherly squeeze, and made the best of her way out of the room.
“Aimée,” said Dolly, “do you remember how often I have made fun of her, when we were all so happy together? We made a good many mistakes, even in Vagabondia, did n't we?” And then she closed her eyes and lay silent, with wet lashes resting on her cheek.
In speaking of this afternoon, long afterwards, Aimée said it seemed the longest and weariest she had ever known. It was extremely hot, and the very air seemed laden with heavy languor. The sun beat down upon the outer world whitely, and scarcely a leaf stirred. Miss MacDowlas did not return, and Dolly, though she was not asleep, lay quite still and did not open her eyes again. So Aimée sat and watched at her side, wondering how the day would end,—wondering if Phil and 'Toinette and Mollie would arrive before it was too late,—wondering what that strange last hour would be like, and how Dolly would bear it when it came, and how they themselves would bear to think of it when it was over.
She was not quite sure how long she sat watching so, but she fancied that it must have been two or three hours, or even more. She got up at last and drew down the green blinds as noiselessly as possible, and then went back to her place and rested her head upon the pillow near Dolly's, feeling drowsy and tired,—she had slept so little during the past few nights.
Dolly moved restlessly, stretching out her hand to Aimée's and opening her eyes all at once—ah! what large, hollow, shadowy eyes they were!
“I am very tired,” she murmured, “so tired and so weak, Aimée,” dreamily. “I suppose this is what you would call dying of a broken heart. It seems so queer that I should die of a broken heart.” “Oh, Dolly—Dolly!” Aimée whispered, “our own dearest dear, we never thought such pain could come to you.”
But even the next moment Dolly seemed to have lost herself, her eyes closed again and she did not speak. So Aimée lay holding her hand, until the indoor silence, the shadow of the room, and the sound of the droning bees outside lulled her into a sort of doze, and her own eyelids fell wearily.
A minute, was it, five or ten, or more than that?