“Can I go? Can I do anything?” he exclaimed.
“No, no, stay with me,” wailed Netta; “he would not come for you. Mamma, you will go. Dear mother, bring him here.”
Without another word, Mrs Lane ran into the next room and hurried on her things, returning to kiss the anxious, flushed face gazing so wistfully at her.
“You will not leave her?” she said, hoarsely.
“No, he will not go,” moaned Netta; “but be quick—be quick.”
Richard’s heart beat fast, for, as he was left alone, Netta’s eyes closed and a terrible pallor succeeded the flush. He was about to rise and summon Mrs Jenkles, but Netta divined his intention, and uttered a feeble protest.
“You said you would not leave me. I am only tired. It is of no use.”
She lay there with her cheek pillowed on his hand, and her eyes closed, but her lips moved gently; and as in that feebly-lighted room the solemn silence seemed to grow more painful, Richard felt a strange thrill of awe pass through him: for he knew that the words she softly whispered to herself were words of prayer.
After a time, Mrs Jenkles softly opened the door and peered in.
“Can I do anything for you, my dear?” she said, gently.