"The child has got a shock," he said then. "I feared it when I called early this morning. I don't say for a moment that she will not get better, but her state is very precarious. I should like you to nurse her altogether, Mrs. Quentyns; much depends on her seeing you by her side when she wakes."
"I shall never leave her again," said Hilda, in a stifled tone.
The doctor's practiced ear caught the suppressed hysteria in her voice.
"Come, come," he said cheerily, "you have nothing to blame yourself for. The little one has evidently felt your absence in a remarkable manner."
"Really, doctor, you are quite mistaken," began Aunt Marjorie. "What I principally noticed about Judy was her great quietness and docility since Hilda left. She scarcely spoke of her sister, and seemed content to sit by my side and read fairy stories. She used to be such a very excitable, troublesome sort of child. If you ask me frankly, I think Hilda's absence did her good."
The doctor looked from the old lady to the young.
"I must adhere to my first opinion," he said. "The child has missed her sister. Now that you have come, Mrs. Quentyns, we will hope for the best."
He went out of the room as he spoke, and Aunt Marjorie followed him.
Hilda dropped on her knees by Judy's cot.
"Oh, my God, forgive me," she cried, in a broken anguished prayer. "I did wrong to leave my little Judy. Oh, God, only spare her life, and I will vow to you that whatever happens she shall never leave me in the time to come. Whatever happens," repeated Hilda, in a choking voice of great agony. Then she rose and took her place beside the child's bed.