She lay for the most part with closed eyes, and but for the heaving of her breast, one might have believed her no longer of the living, so white and shadow-like had she become. She seldom spoke, but not a night fell, that she did not call Bob to her side and whisper, with upturned, anxious eyes:
"I reckon he'll come to-morrow, don't you?"
One evening, after a restless, feverish day, she woke from a brief nap. Her brother was seated by her side, looking sadly into her waxen face. She started up with a strange glitter in her eyes, and seized his arm.
"Bob," she whispered, "he's comin'! He's most here! Go and meet him quick, Bob, an' tell him to hurry, to hurry, mind, or I sha'n't be here!"
The wildness in her face and voice deepened.
"Go, I tell you! Quick! He's comin'!" and she would have sprung from the bed.
"There, there, Molly," said her brother, soothingly, "jess lay right down an' be quiet, an' I'll go."
She lay upon the pillow as he placed her, panting and trembling, and he went hastily out, pausing, as he went through the kitchen, to say a few words to the woman who sat at the table, feeding the little boy.
"She's a heap wusser," he said, "an' out of her head. Keep a watch over her while I go for the doctor."