She found that unhappy little patient lying prone on her face on the floor, as still, as motionless as if death had hushed forever that impulsive heart. She made no sign of having heard when Mrs. Sharpe entered—she never moved nor looked up until the nurse set the tray on the table, and stooping over her, gave her a gentle shake.
"Miss Dane," she said in her stolid tones, "please to get up. Here's your supper."
And Mollie, with a low, wailing cry, raised her wan face and fixed her blue eyes on the woman's face with a look of passionate reproach.
"Why don't you let me alone? Why don't you leave me to die? Oh, if I had but the courage to die by my own hand!"
"Please to take your supper," was Mrs. Sharpe's practical answer to this insane outburst. "Don't be foolish."
She lifted Mollie bodily up, led her over, seated her in her chair, poured her out a cup of tea, and made her drink it, before that half-distracted creature knew what she was about.
"Now take another," said sensible Mrs. Sharpe; "tea will do you a power of good; and eat something; there's nothing like good, wholesome victuals for curing people of notions."
Wearied out in body and mind, Mollie let herself be catered for in submissive silence. She took to her new nurse as she had never taken to any one else in this horrid house. She had a kindly face, had Mrs. Susan Sharpe.
"You feel better now, don't you?" said that worthy woman, the meal completed. "Suppose you go to bed? You look tired. Let me undress you and tuck you in."
And again willful Mollie submitted, and dropped asleep as soon as her head was fairly on the pillow. Motherly Mrs. Sharpe "tucked her in" and kissed her, and then, with the remains of the supper, went down-stairs to partake of her own evening repast.