Dr. Frank, however, was long. Eight struck somewhere in the house; that was half an hour, and there was no sign of his coming. Babette shivered under her shawl, and looked more drearily than ever at the lashing sleet.
Nine—another hour, and no sign from the sick-room, yet. Babette rose up in desperation, but just at that moment Grace came upstairs.
"You here, Babette!" she said, surprised. "Who is with Agnes?"
"The Doctor, Mademoiselle! he told me to wait until he came out, and I have waited, and I am too sleepy to wait any longer. May I go, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, go," said Grace, "I will take your place."
Babette departed with alacrity, and Grace sat down by the storm-beaten window. She listened for some sound from the sick-room, but none rewarded her. Nothing was to be heard but the storm, without, and now and then the opening and shutting of some door within.
Another half-hour. Then the door of the seamstress's room opened, and her brother came out. How pale he was—paler and graver than his sister ever remembered seeing him before.
"Well," she said, rising, "how is your patient?"
"Better," he briefly answered, "very much better."
"I thought she was worse, you look so pale."