Madelon shook her head dumbly.
“Madelon?”
“Wait. You will know soon. I can't tell you,” she gasped out then.
“Was it from Lot Gordon?”
She nodded.
“What is he writing to you about? You are my sister, and I have a right to know.”
“Wait,” she gasped again. “Oh, Eugene, wait. I—can't—”
Suddenly Madelon hung heavy on her brother's arm. “Madelon,” he cried out loudly to her, as if she were deaf—“Madelon, don't! You needn't tell me. Madelon!”
Eugene almost lifted his sister into the rocking-chair on the hearth, and hastened to get her a cup of water; but when he returned with it she motioned it away, and was sitting up, stern and straight and white, but quite conscious.
“Hadn't you better drink it, Madelon?” pleaded Eugene.