A couple of hours went on like this, but when at last Sage found her opportunity, and clasping her sister to her breast, whispered—“Rue, may I trust you now?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” she sobbed. “I pray God I may never see his face again.”
“Then that is our secret, Rue,” Sage whispered. “It is for ever buried in our breasts.”
She left them after some hours, Rue lying upon the bed, sobbing at times, and seemingly asleep, while John Berry sat beside her, holding her little white hands.
Sage went down softly, but began to tremble as she heard voices in the room; but summoning up her courage, she entered, to find Morrison, the wheelwright, standing there, with the Churchwarden placing a glass of hot spirits and water in his hand.
“Go back, go back, my darling,” cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly.
“No, no, my dear,” said the Churchwarden, firmly; “Sage is no coward, and she must know. My darling, try and be firm, and hope for the best. The cart will be here directly, and were going to force our way through and bring him in. Yes, there it comes.”
“What—what is it?” panted Sage. “Is—is Frank—”
“Oh, pray be silent, Joseph,” sobbed Mrs Portlock.
“Why?” said the Churchwarden, firmly. “She must know the worst. Get hot water and blankets ready, my dear, and we’ll soon bring him round. Come, Morrison,” and hurrying out, the door was pushed to, forcing back with it a quantity of the soft white snow.