She could not say. She only remembered her own last words, the warmth, the shadow, the droning of the bees, and the gradual losing consciousness, and then she was wide awake again,—awakened by a strange, wild cry, which, thrilling and echoing through the room, made her start up with a beating heart and look towards the door.
“Grif!”
That was all,—only this single rapturous cry, and Dolly, who had before seemed not to have the strength of a child, was sitting up, a white, tremulous figure, with outstretched arms and fluttering breath, and Grif was standing upon the threshold.
Even when she had blamed him most, Aimée had pitied him also; but she had never pitied him as she did when he strode to the couch and took the weak, worn, tremulous little figure in his arms. He could not speak,—neither spoke. Dolly lay upon his breast crying like a little child. But for him—his grief was terrible; and when the loving hand was laid upon his cheek and Dolly found her first words, they only seemed to make it worse.
“Don't cry,” she said. “Don't cry, dear. Kiss me!” He kissed her lips, her hands, her hair. He could not bear it. She was so like, yet so fearfully unlike, the winsome, tender creature he had loved so long.
“Oh, my God!” he cried, in his old mad way, “you are dying, and if you die it will be I who have murdered you!”
She moved a little nearer, so that her pretty face rested against his shoulder and she could lift her streaming eyes to his, her old smile shining through her tears.
“Dear old fellow,” she said, “darling old fellow, whom I love with all my soul! I shall live just to prove that you have done nothing of the kind!”
It was only Grif she wanted,—only Grif, and Grif had come.