“Good-night, darling,” she said to the little girl.
“Mayn’t I stay?” asked Nancy.
“No; and you are not to come back until I give you leave. Now run away; you are looking tired.”
“It is not being just tired,” said Nan slowly; “it is—the other—it—it kills me.”
“I am very sorry for you, and I don’t understand it,” said Miss Roy. “Perhaps, if you are good and patient, God will give us an explanation some day. Now we are all in trouble about Augusta, and must try to forget ourselves. Goodnight, dear; go to bed.”
“I will,” said Nancy.
She walked feebly out of the room. When she reached the door she turned and looked again at Augusta; but Augusta’s head was buried in the bedclothes. Nancy gave another sigh, and shut the door.
All during the night that followed, Miss Roy did not leave the sick girl. Captain Richmond waited in the anteroom to give what aid he could.
Towards morning Augusta dropped into a more refreshing sleep; but she presently awakened, screaming out that Connie was dead, and that she could not bear it. Miss Roy did all she could to soothe her, and presently called Captain Richmond to the door of the sickroom.
“The day has come,” she said. “That poor child is in a frenzy of grief and terror about Constance Aspray. How could one guess she loved the girl so much?—for they had seldom or never been together. I wish we could find out if the passing-bell was tolling for her. To know that she is still alive would give poor Augusta more rest than anything else.”