“I wish you had been happier than ever I have been,” said Claire sadly. “Now try and sleep.”
“I want to talk to you about baby, Claire dear,” continued May, without heeding her sister’s words.
She laughed softly, and her sister gazed at her in wonder, thinking that she was wandering again, as in the days of her long delirium.
“I was laughing about baby,” she said. “Such a droll little soft thing. I laughed when I saw it first, for we both seemed to be such bits of girls, and it seemed such nonsense for me to be the poor little tot’s mother. I have never been like a mother to it, though, leaving it always to strangers; but you, Claire, you will see to it, and be a better mother to her than ever I could.”
“You shall get better, May, and make your little one a blessing to you when we are far away from here.”
“Yes,” said May with the same peculiar look, “far away from here. Poor little baby! Does my father know?”
“Yes: everything now, dear.”
“Oh, yes, I had forgotten: he kissed me as if he did, and forgave his weak, wilful child.”
“How is she?” whispered Denville, entering the room softly a few minutes later.
“Asleep,” said Claire in the same tone.