“No, don’t go, Polly,” and the thin hands closed tightly about those so full of ministering care. “I’m tired—I’ve walked so far.”
“Walked? Miss Julia!”
“Hush! Julia is dead,” she moaned. “Yes, walked. It was in—Hampshire, I think—weeks ago.”
“And you walked? Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly.
“I was—so weary—so tired, Polly,” moaned the wretched woman; “and—I was—always thinking—of your garden—that little baby—so sweet—so sweet.”
“Oh, Miss Julia, Miss Julia, pray, pray don’t!” sobbed Polly.
“Mine died—years ago—died too—they took it—took it away. I thought if I could get—get as far—you would—”
She stopped speaking, and raised herself in the chair, holding tightly by Polly Morrison’s hands, and gazing wildly round the room.
“Miss Julia!”
“Is it dreaming?” she cried, in a hoarse loud voice. “No, no,” she said softly, and the slow, weary, hesitating syllables dropped faintly again from her thin, pale lips. “I—tried—so hard—I want to—to see—that little little grave—Polly—the little one—asleep.”