What she thought of her past life during that time no one knows; but that soul within her was coming more and more to the surface. It was a strong soul, although it had been so long asleep, and already new desires, unselfish and beautiful, were awakening in the child. Between twelve and one that night the Squire opened his eyes and saw a little girl, with a white face and eyes big and dark, seated close to him.
He smiled, and his hand just went out a quarter of an inch to Evelyn. She saw the movement, and immediately her own small fingers clasped his. She bent down and kissed his hand.
“Uncle Edward, do not speak,” she said. “It was I who loaded the gun. You must get well, Uncle Edward, or I shall die.”
He did not answer in any words, but his eyes smiled at her; and the next moment she had sunk back in her chair, relieved to her heart’s core. Her eyes closed; she slept.
CHAPTER XXXI.—FOR UNCLE EDWARD’S SAKE.
The Squire was a shade better the next morning; but Mr. Leeson, not two miles away, lay at the point of death. Fever had claimed him for its prey, and he continued to be wildly delirious, and did not know in the least what he was doing. Thus two men, each unknown to the other, but who widely influenced the characters of this story, lay within the Great Shadow.
Evelyn Wynford continued to efface herself. This was the first time in her whole life she had ever done so; but when Lady Frances appeared, punctual to the hour, to take her place at her husband’s side, the little girl glided from the room.
It was early on the following morning, when the mistress of the Castle was standing for a few bewildered moments in her sitting-room, her hand pressed to her forehead, her eyes looking across the landscape, tears dimming their brightness, that a child rushed into her presence.
“Go away, Evelyn,” she said. “I cannot speak to you.”
“Tell me one thing,” said Evelyn; “is he better?”