“Where is Clayton?” said Davison, turning about. “He is needed.”
A cowboy came running into the house to report the stampede of the cattle.
“Let them go,” Davison cried; “you ride at once for Doctor Clayton. Tell him to come immediately.”
Pearl Harkness had hurried into the kitchen, thinking of hot-water bags. Mary stared into Sibyl’s face and inanely patted the pillow tucked under her head. Lucy was wiping away the blood that oozed from between Sibyl’s lips.
“Come nearer, dear,” said Sibyl in a weak voice, speaking to Mary. “Come nearer, dear; I want you to kiss me and forgive me. I—I—”
Her ghastly features became more pinched and ghastly; her hand wavered toward Mary’s face. Mary took it and placed it against her warm, tear-wet cheek, in the old way.
Sibyl stared at her.
“I—I can’t see you, dear; but you have hold of my hand. The room must be growing dark, or—or is it my eyes? The windows haven’t been closed, have they?”
“The windows are open,” said Mary; “wide open.”
Sibyl still stared at her, while Pearl bustled into the room with cloths and a water bottle.