"Yes, mother."
"Come here, dear, let me look at you."
Winifred went and sat beside her where they could look into each other's faces.
"Dear, do you think I am very ill? Does the doctor say so?"
"He has not said much, mother. But he is taking every care."
"Yes, I see. What do you think, child?"
"I do not know, mother. But we hope you are getting on as well as possible."
"Winnie," said she again, and her voice came with difficulty, "I think I am very ill. I have had sickness before, but not like this. Things seem slipping away."
Winifred's eyes filled with tears, but she forced them back. "Do not think that, mother," she pleaded.
"They are all slipping away," insisted the sick woman. "Every one—father, Hubert, you—everyone—everything I know—all slipping away."