“Then you are both going away, and I shall never see you again?” I said bitterly.
“Who can say?” said Mrs John, smiling. “You know why I am going. I may come back in a few years strong and well, to find you a prosperous and—Ah!”
“Alexes! my child!” cried Mr John in agony, for Mrs John, who had been speaking in a low voice, suddenly changed colour, raised her hands to her throat, as she uttered a low sigh, and would have fallen from her chair if I had not caught and supported her.
We were lifting her to the little horse-hair couch, when there was a tap at the door, and Mrs Dean appeared.
“Is anything the—”
“Matter,” she would have said, but as she caught sight of Mrs John’s white face, she came forward quickly, and with all the clever management of a practised nurse, assisted in laying the fainting woman back on the couch.
“She’s weak, and been trying to do too much, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I was afraid,” cried Mr John. “But she would come—to see you, Mayne. Tell me where—I’ll run for a doctor.”
“Oh no, sir,” said Mrs Dean, quietly; “I’ll bathe her temples a bit. She’ll soon come round.”
Mrs Dean hurried out of the room, and was back directly with basin, sponge, towels, and a tiny little silver box.