The maid roused by her pain out of her tears looked in affright into the gray face above her. "Let me go," she cried. "Oh! madame, you hurt me."
"Give me air," said Madame Chatterton, her fingers relaxing, and making a great effort not to fall. "Help me over to the window, and open it, girl"—and leaning heavily on the slight figure, she managed to get across the room.
"There—now," drawing a heavy breath as she sank into a chair and thrust her ashen face out over the sill, "do you go and find out how the child is. And come back and tell me at once."
"Madame, I'm afraid to leave you alone," said the girl, looking at her.
"Afraid? I'm not so old but that I can take care of myself," said Mrs. Chatterton with a short laugh. "Go and do as I tell you," stamping her foot.
"Still unconscious"—
Would no one ever come near her but this detestable maid, with her still more detestable news? Mrs. Chatterton clutched the window casing in her extremity, not feeling the soft springy air as she gasped for breath. The maid, too frightened to leave her, crept into a corner where she watched and cried softly.
There was a stir in the household that they might have heard, betokening the arrival of two other doctors, but no word came. And darkness settled upon the room. Still the figure in the window niche held to its support, and still the maid cried at her post.
As the gray of the twilight settled over the old stone mansion,
Phronsie moved on her pillow.
"Dear mouse,"—the circle of watchers around the bed moved closer,—"I'll go away when some one comes to open the door."