“They may, Richling; I hope they will.”
“I think I’d get well if she’d come,” said the invalid. But his friend made no answer.
A day or two afterward—it was drawing to the close of a beautiful afternoon in early May—Dr. Sevier came into the room and stood at a window looking out. Madame Zénobie sat by the bedside softly fanning the patient. Richling, with his eyes, motioned her to retire. She smiled and nodded approvingly, as if to say that that was just what she was about to propose, and went out, shutting the door with just sound enough to announce her departure to Dr. Sevier.
He came from the window to the bedside and sat down. The sick man looked at him, with a feeble eye, and said, in little more than a whisper:—
“Mary and Alice”—
“Yes,” said the Doctor.
“If they don’t come to-night they’ll be too late.”
“God knows, my dear boy!”
“Doctor”—
“What, Richling?”