“She has been subject to hemorrhages lately,” he said, addressing himself to Emory. “We were on our way home from the theatre, and, seeing the hotel lights up here, stopped for a moment for her to rest a little, and then she tried to sing. Poor little woman—her work is almost over now.” Then after a pause he said: “I fear she is dying; have you no wife, no sister to call?”
“I will call some friend;” but, before he could leave the room, the form before them stirred, turning the haggard, withered face to the light. Something illumined the room—two glorious eyes, with the shadow of death upon them. And then she spoke:
“Neil, it is I—it is Cecile!” and again she lay quite motionless.
Through the door, which he had just opened, came the sound of passing feet; he looked up, and, at that moment, saw Gwendoline and her mother go by. He ran into the passage, and overtook them as they were about entering their apartments.
“Come with me!” he cried, excitedly.
Gwendoline gave a little cry at the suddenness of his appearance, the oddity of his request, the strangeness of his manner, and all at such an hour.
“Come with you? I do not understand! What ails you?”
“Come, come!” he cried, excitedly. “Cecile is here—Cecile is dying! Do come!”
“What mean you?” she gasped. “Cecile here—dying? Oh, mother, let us go!”
He led the way, assuring them that no harm awaited them, and that he did but wish them to render service to a dying soul.