When she came back, looking at her, he raised his eyebrows ever so little, and moved his head. She understood his sign and stooped again to listen.
“She mustn’t be prosecuted, she’s mad—Ally, mind.”
“Darling, whatever you wish.”
“Good, Ally; that’s enough.”
There was a little pause.
“You did not take enough claret, darling Ry. Won’t you take a little more for your poor little Ally?” whispered she anxiously.
“I’m very well, darling; by-and-by sleep; is better.”
So he laid his cheek closer to the pillow and closed his eyes, and Alice Fairfield stole on tiptoe to her chair, and with another look at him and a deep sigh, she sat down and took her work.
Silent was the room, except for the low breathing of the invalid. Half an hour passed, and Alice stole softly to the bedside. He was awake, and said faintly—
“Was it your mother?”