"Here, Prosperity," called Miss Gastonguay, "some water quick,—and take that table away so she won't see it. Bother the girl, why doesn't she pray and fast less and eat more, so as to keep strength in her body."
In a few minutes Aurelia revived, and in a pitiful, trembling voice apologised for the trouble she had given.
"Fudge and nonsense!" said Miss Gastonguay. "We all have times when if we don't faint we'd like to. Here, drink this; and, Prosperity, go telephone to Doctor Sinclair that his daughter is going to stay here all night. Don't say she doesn't feel well."
"I had rather go home," said Aurelia, feebly.
"You'll stay here. We'll put you to sleep in the Marie Antoinette room off mine, and I'll call to see how you are through the night. Chelda, you see to getting her to bed now. I have some letters to write."
Chelda willingly assumed the care of the suffering girl, who had suddenly become possessed of a peculiar attraction for her. Her black eyes fastened themselves on the pale face on the sofa cushion. Not a look, not an action escaped them, and she made not the slightest effort to control her eagerness as she hung over her guest.
"Your distress is mental, not physical," she murmured, when Miss Gastonguay and Prosperity had left them. "Tell me about it."
Aurelia, naturally frank, was in her state of exhaustion doubly open to persuasion, and yet her bloodless lips could not frame the secret of her distress.
"It is Mr. Huntington," said Chelda, "you are sorry to think he has gone away."
"Sorry!" and Aurelia made a weak gesture expressive of lack of appropriateness in the adjective. Then, coaxed and allured by Chelda, she whispered a tearful tale of a hopeless infatuation for the young clergyman.