Oh, go away! Go away! Quick—"
Miss Kezia, to her own amazement, found herself obeying the strenuous voice, the note of real agony. As she hesitated outside the door she heard a sudden storm of sobs—a breathless, wild weeping, a smothered wail of woe. And she walked softly away, her face flushed, as if she had been guilty of some meanness. She stood inside her room awhile, then went back. She paused outside the door; all was silent. She turned the handle clumsily and went in. Sheila Pat lay in her bed, quiet and still; but Miss Kezia knew she was not asleep.
"I've fetched my red wool for the border," she said, and she told the falsehood—a thing abhorred of her rigid conscientiousness—with a ringing cheerfulness.
Nell came in presently with a bowl of bread and milk. The Atom sat up listlessly.
"Aunt Kezia has been very patient," she said gravely. "Nell, please need I have any?" She leant her head against Nell's arm, and her fingers squeezed it lovingly.
"Just a little, sweet. Has she slept at all, Aunt Kezia?
"No. Perhaps she will after her bread and milk."
But she didn't. And as the evening wore on her temperature rose; her little burning face grew more desperate. She began to talk, feverishly, excitedly. Dr. Everton called again. He gave a few directions, and urged them to keep her mind as quiet as possible.
"Her temperature is very high. She hardly knows what she is saying. I believe she has something on her mind. I will call early to-morrow morning. No talk, please; she must be kept quiet."
"Nell, people never want to kill theirselves in Ireland, do they? There's not a bad old monnyment there. It had three hundred million steps. The man said so. It was very high, you see, and I was glad, because I thought I'd be able to see over all the roofs, and I thought I'd see the sea and a blue mist and Ireland shinin' out—all green—oh, I want to go home, Nell! I want to go home!" She broke out into pitiful crying, too bad now to fight any longer.