Ah, she knew that! “I must, indeed,” she said.
“Remember, please, that I knew of this no sooner than you did.”
She started, she flushed. What did this mean, then? Was it possible that Mrs. James—for reasons—Ah, and if it was, did it matter? Did anything matter? Only one thing—and that was of her provision. She resumed her hungry, patient watch.
The Rector still stood by her, his hand on her shoulder.
“Be patient, my dear. Trust the future to the good God.”
She said, “I do. But he will not die yet. I am sure.”
“Ah, my dear—” he began, in his despair. But she spoke on vehemently.
“He cannot—he will not. He will know me again presently—and speak to me. That is necessary for us both. We have things to talk about. Then he will die.”
The Rector shrank. “You talk strangely. What do we know? My dear old brother! . . . Will you not come and rest—after your—?” He stopped there, and she understood his reason.
“I’m not at all tired,” she told him. “I shall sit here until he wakes, and knows me. I can rest here quite well. I don’t want any food or anything.” The Rector urged her no more, and presently left her.