“You said Rosamond was sick. What is the matter?”
“Sore throat and bad cold fust, and then your wife comed an’ took us by surprise, an’ Miss Rossie fainted cl’ar away, and has been as white, an’ still, an’ slimpsy as a rag ever since.”
Something like a groan escaped from Everard’s lips, as he said:
“Tell Miss Rossie I am here, and ask if I can see her,—at once, before I meet anybody else.”
“Yes, I’ll tell her,” Axie said, as she hurried to the room, where, to her great surprise, she found her young mistress in her flannel dressing-gown and shawl, sitting in her easy-chair, with her head resting upon pillows scarcely whiter than her face, save where the red spots of fever burned so brightly.
In spite of Mrs. Markham’s remonstrance Rossie had insisted upon getting up and being partly dressed.
“I must see Everard,” she said. “You can’t understand, and I can’t explain, but he will come to me, and I must see him alone.
“Yes. Tell him to come up; I am ready for him,” she said to Aunt Axie.
And Everard advanced, with a sinking heart, and knocked at Rossie’s door just as a black-robed figure, with a white wool shawl wrapped around it, started to come up the stairs.