“Claire.”
It was the faintest whisper of a call, but she to whom it was addressed heard it, and leaned over the bed to lay a cool hand upon the little wistful face looking up from the pillow.
“How long have I been lying here, Claire?”
“Hush, dear; don’t talk,” said Claire tenderly, “you are still so weak.”
“Yes, but I must know. If you do not answer my questions, I shall fret and die sooner than I should do if you told me.”
“Six weeks, dear.”
“Six weeks!” sighed May; “and it seems like a dream. Since I seemed to wake up the day before yesterday, I have been thinking about it all, and I recollect everything now.”
She spoke with perfect calmness, and as she went on, Claire’s brow wrinkled.
“Poor old dad! How fond he is of me, and how ready to forgive me,” she went on quietly. “Has Frank Burnett been?”
Claire shook her head.