"Not here; upstairs."
They climbed the staircase together, Jane half carrying the fainting woman, her mind in a whirl.
"Where were you taken ill? Why did you try to come home? Why didn't Lucy come with you?"
They had reached the door of Jane's bedroom now, Martha clinging to her arm.
Once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bands to her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sank slowly to the floor.
"It is not me," she moaned, wringing her hands, "not me—not—"
"Who?"
"Oh, I can't say it!"
"Lucy?"
"Yes"