Mrs. Stoddart frowned.
"I can't have you ill on my hands too," she said briskly; "one is enough." And she left the room, and presently came back with a glass with a few drops in it. She made Annette swallow them, and put a warm rug over her, and darkened the room.
And presently Annette's eyes closed, and the anguish of the last two days was lifted from her, as a deft hand lifts a burden. She sighed and leaned her cheek against a pillow which was made of rest; and presently she was wandering in a great peace in a wide meadow beside a little stream whispering among its forget-me-nots. And across the white clover, and the daisies, and the little purple orchids, came the feet of one who loved her. And they walked together beside the stream, the kind, understanding stream, he and she—he and she together. And all was well, all was well.
Many hours later, Mrs. Stoddart and the doctor came and looked at her, and he thrust out his under lip.
"I can't bear to wake her," she said.
"One little half-hour, then," he said, and went back to the next room.
Mrs. Stoddart sat down by the bed, and presently Annette, as if conscious of her presence, opened her eyes.
"I see now," she said slowly, looking at Mrs. Stoddart with the fixed gravity of a child, "I was wrong."
"How wrong, my dear?"
"Rivers are not meant for that, nor the little streams either. They are not meant to drown oneself in. They are meant to run and run, and for us to walk beside, and pick forget-me-nots."