“Who, darling?”
“Talking.”
“No one was talking, darling.”
“I saw her; I thought I heard—not her—some one talking.”
“No, darling Ry, nothing.”
“Dreams; yes,” he murmured, and was quiet again.
Sad and ominous seemed those little wanderings. But such things are common in sickness. It was simply weakness.
In a little time she came over softly, and sat down by his pillow.
“I was looking down, Ally,” he whispered.
“I’ll get it, darling. Something on the floor, is it?” she asked, looking down.