"Tell me, father, I can bear it from you. Is she—is she dead?"
"Is who dead?"
"Ju—Judy."
"No; what has put that into your head? But your little sister is very ill, Hilda. I am not so much alarmed about her as your Aunt Marjorie is, but I confess her state puzzles me. I saw Dr. Harvey to-day, and I don't think he is satisfied either. It seems that for some reason the child was over-excited last night—there was difficulty in getting her off to sleep, and she cried in a very distressing and painful way. I was obliged to sit with her myself. I held her hand, poor little darling, and had a prayer with her, and—toward morning she dropped off into a sleep."
"And," continued Hilda, "she was better when she awoke, wasn't she? Do say she was, father. You showed her Jasper's telegram the very instant she awoke, and of course she got much better immediately."
"My dear Hilda, the strange thing about Judy has yet to be told; she has not awakened—she is still asleep, and this prolonged and unnatural sleep disturbs Dr. Harvey a good deal."
"I had better go to her at once, father. I think the doctor must be mistaken in thinking sleep bad. When Judy sees me sitting by her bedside she will soon cheer up and get like her old self. I'll run to her now, father: I don't feel half so much alarmed since you tell me that she is only asleep."
The Rector gave vent to a troubled sigh; Hilda put wings to her feet, and with the lightness and grace of a bird sped toward the house.
"Hilda, Hilda!" called her husband. He had taken a short cut across some fields, and was now entering the Rectory domain. He thought it would be quite the correct thing for his wife to wait for him. Surely she would like to enter her family circle with him by her side. "Hilda, stop!" he cried, and he hurried his own footsteps.
But if Hilda heard she did not heed. She rushed on, and soon disappeared from view inside the deep portico of the old house.