As she lay thus on the bed, she heard the creaking of the wicker-chair as the nurse arose, then came the clink of the spoon and the glass, and the woman’s low voice, and then her mother’s, stronger and clearer than it had been for some days. There was an interchange of remarks between nurse and patient, the sound of careful steps, and the crack of light suddenly expanded as the door was opened. Against this background, clear and smoothly yellow as gold leaf, the nurse’s figure was revealed in sharp silhouette.
“Are you there, Miss Moreau?” she said in a low voice. Mariposa started with a hurried reply.
“Well, your mother wants to see you and you’d better come. Her mind seems much clearer and it may not be so again.”
The girl rose from the bed trying to compose her face. In the light of the open door the woman saw its distress and looked at her pityingly.
“Don’t tire her,” she said, “but I advise you to say all you have to say. She may not be this way again.”
Mariposa crossed the room to the bed. Her mother was lying on her side, pinched, pale and with darkly circled eyes.
“Have you just waked up, darling?” said the girl, tenderly.
“No,” she answered, with a curious lack of response in manner and tone; “I have been awake some time. I was thinking.”
“Why didn’t you send Mrs. Brown for me? I was in my room passing the time till you woke up.”
“I was thinking and I wanted to finish. I have been thinking a long time, days and weeks.”