to quiet myself, to crush back my misery, my despair. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll wash my face and hands, and make my hair tidy and go back to her again. She never loved anyone in all the world as she loved me. I am her twin, you know, and twins are so close to each other, fifty times closer than the ordinary brother and sister. I’ll go back to her, and I’ll stay so quiet that even the nurses won’t have anything to complain of. You need not remain in this house after all, Leslie, for I cannot be with you. I must return to my darling.”
“And by so doing be dreadfully selfish and injure her,” said Leslie.
“Selfish, and injure her!” repeated Marjorie.
“Yes, injure her, and take away the faint chance there may be of her life.”
“But you cannot mean that, Leslie. What possible harm can I do her? How perfectly ridiculous you are! I injure my own Eileen? Why do you speak in that way? It is impossible that I could injure her.”
“I know you will injure her if you go back. You don’t look natural, Marjorie. You must try to subdue your emotion. You are much too flushed, your eyes are too full of anxiety. The very tone of your voice is all strain. Now, Eileen ought to have no anxious person in her room. So much depends on all that sort of thing being kept out of the sickroom; and, dear,”—Leslie’s voice shook,—“I don’t know that I ought to say it, and yet I will—there is one thing to be done.”
“Speak. How mysterious you are!”
“Let us pray for her, Marjorie; let us ask God to save her. It is all in His hands. Let us ask Him to spare her life.”
Marjorie stared at Leslie, then she clutched hold of her hand, squeezed it, and said eagerly:
“Do you—do you think He will?”