He drew out, with a painful effort, something from beneath his pillow and handed it to her. It was a letter, addressed to herself, and tightly sealed.
"My secret is there," he whispered—"the secret it would blister my lips to tell you. When you are safe with Madame Beaufort, in Paris, open and read this—not before. You promise, Harrie?"
"Anything, papa—everything!" She hid it away in her bosom. "And now try to sleep; you are talking a great deal too much."
"Sing for me, then."
She obeyed the strange request—he had always loved to hear her sing. She commenced a plaintive little song, and before it was finished he was asleep.
All night long she watched by his bedside. Now he slept, now he woke up fitfully, now he fell into a lethargic repose. The doctor and Sir Everard kept watch in an adjoining chamber, within sight of that girlish form.
Once, in the small hours, the sick man looked at her clearly, and spoke aloud:
"Wake me at day-dawn, Harrie."
"Yes, papa."
And then he slept again. The slow hours dragged away—morning was near. She walked to the window, drew the curtain and looked out. Dimly the pearly light was creeping over the sky, lighting the purple, sleeping sea, brightening and brightening with every passing second.