Roy was not at home when Georgie came with the news of Edna’s intended absence, and, when he heard it from his mother, he evinced more dissatisfaction even than she had done, and finally after lunch drove over to Jersey City, determined to bring Edna back.
She was surprised and glad to see him, and there was a flush on her cheek, and a soft light in her brown eyes, which in spite of her worn, tired look, made her very beautiful as she stood, with her hand in his, in the reception room, listening to his anxious inquiries as to how she had passed the night, and his intention of taking her home with him.
“Oh, I cannot do that,” she said. “I cannot leave Annie now. You don’t know how sick she is, or you would not ask it.”
“But surely there are others whose duty it is more than yours to forego their pleasure,” Roy rejoined, and Edna answered:
“She has no relatives except Mr. Heyford and Miss Burton, and she, you know, cannot be here; and, as I will not leave Maude alone, I must stay. I am sorry, for I did anticipate the party a little, but I think I am doing right.”
Roy thought so too, and involuntarily pressed the hand which Edna had all the time been quietly trying to withdraw from his grasp. He did not urge her further, nor ask to see Annie. He was not specially interested in the latter, save as he would be in any sick person: and just at that particular time he felt her to be rather a bother, and wondered why she need have been sick when he wanted Miss Overton at home.
“Don’t say anything to alarm Miss Burton, please,” Edna said to him as he was about to leave. “We know she cannot come now, but to-morrow morning we shall expect her sure.”
Rapidly the day passed to the inmates of No.—— Madison Square, where all was bustle and excitement, and eager anticipation; and rapidly, too, passed the day at No.—— in Jersey City, where Jack, and Maude, and Edna watched the death-sign creeping slowly upon the face of the dying child.
All the afternoon she lay in a kind of stupor, never moving or speaking, except occasionally to utter Georgie’s name; but about dark there came a change,—a great restlessness, with a continual asking for sister and mother.