He sank down on his seat behind the counter, pale as death. The obstinate cough, the short breathing, the hectic flush, all rushed back to his memory; unseen, unheeded, till then, they now told him one fearful story. With trembling hand he wiped away the drops of cold perspiration from his forehead.
"The doctor must see her directly," he said, "directly. I'll go and look for him, and you'll send her round. It's nothing—nothing at all, I am sure; she's growing, you see. But still, it must be attended to, you know —it must be attended to."
A light laugh at the door interrupted him. He turned round, and saw Mary looking in at him and Rachel Gray, through the glass windows; with another laugh, she vanished. Rachel went to the door, and called her back.
"Mary, Mary, your father wants you."
The young girl came in; and, for the first time, her father seemed to see the bright red spot that burned on her cheek, the unnatural brilliancy of her blue eyes, the painful shortness of her breath. A mist seemed to fall from his eyes, and the dread truth to stand revealed before him; but he did not speak, nor did Rachel; Mary looked at them both, wondering.
"Well, what ails you two, that you stare at me so," she said, pertly. "I am so hot," she added, after a while. "I think I shall stay at home, as you said. Miss Gray."
She went into the back parlour, and sat down on the first chair she found at hand. Rachel Gray and her father followed her in. The poor child, who, because she had felt no actual pain, had thought that she could not be ill, now, for the first time, felt that she was so.
"What ails you, dear?" softly asked Rachel, bending over her, as she saw her gradually turning pale.
"La! bless you. Miss Gray, I am quite well—only I feel so faint like."
And even as she spoke, her head sank on the bosom of Rachel—she had fainted.