"I am not ill, Katy," she said, wearily, "only I—I have a slight headache. If you will leave me by myself I will take a short rest if I can, then I shall be all right."
But Katy insisted upon bringing her a cordial, if not the wine, and surely she was forgiven for putting a few drops of a sleeping potion in the glass ere she handed it to her mistress. She well knew that she had not slept soundly for some time past.
Surely she was breaking down slowly from some terrible mental strain. She realized but too well what that mental strain was.
Dorothy allowed her to lead her passively to the sofa, and to deposit her among the cushions.
"You will ring when you want me, Miss Dorothy," she said, placing a table with a bell on it close by her side.
"Yes," said Dorothy, wearily. "Now go and leave me, that's a good girl;" and Katy passed into the next apartment, drawing the curtains softly behind her. There she sat down and waited until her mistress should fall asleep. It almost made the girl's heart bleed to hear the great sighs that broke from Dorothy's lips.
"Poor soul! poor soul!" she cried; "how unhappy she is!"
But soon the potion began to take effect, and the sighs soon melted into deep, irregular breathing, and then Katy knew that she slept.
An hour passed, and yet another, still she did not waken, though there were loud sounds of mirth and revelry in the drawing-room beneath. The maid recognized Iris' voice and that of Harry Kendal.
"The grand rascal!" muttered the girl; "how I feel like choking that man! He doesn't care any more for that poor blind girl in there, that he's engaged to, than the dust which sticks to his patent leather shoes. I believe the truth is slowly beginning to dawn upon her."