But she could not say any more, and walked on into the sitting-room where the Vicar was already seated.
"Oh, Vicar: I'm afraid you are too late," she said, and began to weep afresh. "It's so dreadfully, dreadfully sudden."
"I came the moment Mr. Wilson told me. I chanced to be in the house," said the Vicar. He paused. "I wouldn't trouble too much about my being late, Mrs. Bradford. Miss Ethel did not leave things until now, you know. She was ready to meet her God."
"She is quite unconscious," said Mrs. Bradford. "At first she kept murmuring over and over: 'Everything's so different.—everything's so different.' But the doctor said it was probably what she was saying to herself when she fell. It meant nothing."
"Meant nothing!" It was Miss Panton's voice, which cut abruptly across their solemn conversation, startling them both; but she had again forgotten herself entirely. "You say it meant nothing—when she's dying of it."
"Of what? Of things being different!" said Laura, speaking from a corner of the room where she had intended to remain silent.
But some one had to break that terrible pause. For Miss Panton—Nanty—with all her silliness had spoken words which were to all of them like a search-light suddenly turned upon the inner secrets of the woman who was dying upstairs.
"Poor Ethel! I'm afraid so," said Mrs. Bradford. "It's true that she did take things to heart—about the new houses, and the hedge, and all the rest." But the next moment that blinding light was blurred in Mrs. Bradford's mind: "Of course I disliked the changes too—only I took them differently. I am sure they did not produce my sister's illness. Of course not." And she glanced at Miss Panton with heavy-eyed disfavour.
"I am afraid Miss Ethel dreaded the idea of leaving this house," said the Vicar.
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "You see, it was the only home my sister ever knew." And despite her real grief, she glanced up instinctively at Mr. Bradford's portrait, triumphing over the sister who lay upstairs.