So Phronsie laid down her blossoms near the poor white face, and stole back quickly, only breathing freely when she was as close to Polly as she could creep, without hurting the broken arm.
"I'm dying—I'm not afraid," suddenly said Pickering's white lips. Dr. Fisher sprang and put a spoonful of stimulant to them, while Mrs. Cabot buried her face yet deeper on Polly's shoulder, her husband turning on his heel, to pace the floor and groan. "Polly, Polly!" called Pickering quite distinctly, in a tone of anguish.
"O, Polly, Polly! he's dying—go to him do!" Mrs. Cabot tore her hand out of Polly's, almost pushing her from the chair. "Quick, dear!"
Polly put Phronsie aside, and stepped softly to the bedside; Pickering's eyes eagerly watched for her face.
He smiled up at her, "Polly," and tried to raise his hand.
She laid her warm, soft palm on the cold one lying on the coverlid. He clasped his thin fingers convulsively around it.
"I am here, Pickering," said Polly, unable to find voice for anything else.
"Don't—ever—leave me," she could just make out the words, bending close to catch them.
"I never will," said Polly quietly.
A sudden gleam came into his face, and he tried to smile, grasping her hand tighter as his eyes closed.