Hal stood still a second, and then ran forward blindly with outstretched hands.
“She is better, Jean—say she is better. Oh, she must be, she must; she wired yesterday to say there was great improveent.”
Jean broke down into helpless weeping as she sobbed out:
“She died this morning at six o’clock.”
For one moment Hal seemed too stunned to understand; then she swayed, and fell heavily into Denton’s arms.
Later when she had recovered, Jean told them of the restless, nerve-racking night; of the priest’s visit, and of the fast-ebbing strength gathered together to write some message the nurse had taken to the post office. After that extreme exhaustion had set in, greatly aggravated by the mental stress, and they could only watch her sinking from hour to hour.
“She only roused once more,” Jean said, “and that was to try and write a message for you. I have it there,” and she produced a little folded note.
In faint, tremulous words Hal read:
“Good-bye, darling Hal. It is hard to be without you now, but you will inderstand why I sent the message. I want to tell you it has never been Alymer’s fault; do not blame him. I ask it of you. At the last hour I have made what reparation I could. Don’t grieve for me. I have made so many mistakes, and now I am too tired to go on. Give my dear, dear love to Alymer, and say good-bye to Flip and mother. I am not unhappy now—only very, very tired.
“Your own
“LORRY.”