"Anna—knew. She—should—"
Kitty bent down, speaking eagerly. "Anna did more for me—for us all.
She saved Dan's life—in that fire."
The poor invalid looked up with a gleam of pleasure in her eyes.
"Did she? I am—very glad; but it—it did not excuse—the other.
That is—beyond forgiveness."
"Oh no!" cried Kitty warmly, "nothing is that. It is all forgiven long ago, and we will never think of it again."
Aunt Pike's hand was almost helpless, but Kitty felt it press hers ever so slightly, and stooping down she laid her fresh warm cheek against her aunt's cold one. "You must make haste and get well," she said affectionately, "and then we shall all be happy again."
"It-doesn't matter. No one cares," gasped the poor invalid, tears of weakness creeping out from between her lids.
"Oh, you mustn't say that," cried Kitty sturdily. "You must get well for all our sakes. Anna cares, and I care very much. We all care, more than we thought we did till we knew you were ill."
"Anna," whispered the invalid, "is she—all—right?"
"Yes, Tony has soothed her to sleep, and is sitting by her, and I am going to sit by you while you go to sleep. Dr. Yearsley says you mustn't talk any more now," and Kitty, seated in a chair by her aunt's bedside, held her helpless hand lovingly until she had fallen into the easiest sleep she had had yet. By-and-by the nurse came back, and Kitty was free to move.
"I think I must go and talk to Fanny now," she thought, and she made her way to the kitchen, thinking very soberly the while.