“If it's typhoid, I'm gone.”
“That's childish. Of course you're not gone, or anything like it. Besides, it's probably not typhoid.”
“I'm afraid to sleep. I doze for a little, and when I waken there are people in the room. They stand around the bed and talk about me.”
Sidney's precious minutes were flying; but Carlotta had gone into a paroxysm of terror, holding to Sidney's hand and begging not to be left alone.
“I'm too young to die,” she would whimper. And in the next breath: “I want to die—I don't want to live!”
The hands of the little watch pointed to eight-thirty when at last she lay quiet, with closed eyes. Sidney, tiptoeing to the door, was brought up short by her name again, this time in a more normal voice:—
“Sidney.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Perhaps you are right and I'm going to get over this.”
“Certainly you are. Your nerves are playing tricks with you to-night.”