“Look here,” he said in a low trembling voice; “I know you two girls love me, and always have, since you were little bits of things, and it all increased when your poor dying father and mother begged me to act as your guardian. Come, now; I’ve done my duty to you both.”
“Always, dear,” said Saxa tenderly.
“Then now, both of you do your duty by me. You, Saxa, my child, speak. You came here to stay for a day or two. I wished it so that you and the boys might see more of each other. I see; you have quarrelled.”
“Not yet,” said the girl firmly. “There is no need to quarrel; all that is at an end.”
“What?”
“Yes, at an end, guardian,” said Dana. “If Alison prefers another woman to me, he may have her.”
“Alison? Another woman? Has he dared to trifle with you? to oppose my wishes? No; it is a mistake. And you, Saxa, my girl—what is wrong with you?”
“I say the same as my sister, sir. If Neil Elthorne prefers to marry your nurse, let him; everything between us is at an end.”
Ralph Elthorne’s jaw dropped, and he looked helplessly, vacantly, from one to the other. Then, raising his hands wildly, he seemed to be fighting for his breath, his convulsed features horrifying the two girls, who were strong-minded in their way, and accustomed enough to scenes of human suffering to look on unmoved, as a rule. But the aspect of their guardian startled them; the callousness produced by their rough, outdoor education dropped away, and they were gentle women once again in the presence of the old man’s agony.
“I’ll ring for help,” panted Dana, and in her confusion she ran to the wrong end of the room to find the bell pull, while Saxa threw herself on her knees by the couch, and caught one of the fluttering hands.