“I asked her if Eileen were in danger,” said Leslie, “and she said, ‘We are doing all we can for her; but in God’s hands are the issues of life.’”
“Oh, then it is hopeless,” said Marjorie. “I—I always thought it was.” She got off the bed as she spoke. She was trembling so excessively that she nearly fell. Leslie went up and tried to put her arm round her waist.
“Don’t touch me,” said Marjorie. “I can’t bear anyone to touch me now. It is all too true. They have been trying to keep the truth from me. Did I not read it in their faces? Even the doctors have deceived me. Leslie, oh Leslie, if you saw her now you would not know her.”
Marjorie came up close to Leslie as she spoke.
“Her face is so sunken, and, oh, so white, and her eyes so very big. You know what lovely eyes Eileen always had—so soft in expression, so full of the soul which animated all she ever did, or thought, or said; but now, Leslie, now if you could see them—they have a sort of spirit-look. She was always unearthly, and now she is going away. She is going to the better and the spiritual world; and I, oh Leslie, I can’t bear it.”
Marjorie turned away, walked to the window, rested her elbow on the sill, and looked out.
“I cannot, cannot bear it,” she repeated at intervals.
Leslie remained motionless for a few minutes; she was thinking hard.
“Of course,” she said, after a long pause, “there is only one thing to be done.”
“Only one thing—yes, I know what you mean. I am