"If I can leave," Dolores answers, and Sir Barry gives the little hand resting on the balcony rail, a gentle pat, and Dolores, with a very red face, hurries in doors.
Poor little Roy, he is sitting bolt upright in his little iron bedstead; the sweet pretty face is flushed and burning in a high fever; his eyes are dull and heavy; but he holds out his arms when he sees Dolores.
"Dress an' take Roy away from here, Dolly; take and carry Roy down where the sun shines," he says; and poor Dolores is terribly frightened; little Roy is very ill. She tells him he will go to sleep now, as it is dark, but in the morning they will go and see the sunshine dancing on the water. She sends Hester for the doctor, but Sir Barry, who is watching, meets her and says to go back and remain with Miss Litchfield, and he will go for the physician.
All night, and all the next day, and the next, Dolores sits by the little iron bed; she never leaves the child's side. Not for a single moment will he allow his Dolly out of his sight. The case was very serious.
"I should think, if his mother wants to see him again alive, she had better be here to-day."
Mrs. St. James loves her child after her own fashion, but she loved pleasure and her own comfort more.
"He is surely not so very ill," Dolores says, regarding the doctor's face in alarm.
"Miss Litchfield, the child is dying; I can do nothing more for him."
Dolores is shocked. What will she do? Dear, gay, merry little Roy dying! Oh! it cannot be possible! What can his mother be thinking of to leave him so cruelly alone? But he never once mentioned his mother's name. "Dolly" was there, and that was sufficient. It was useless to try to send for Mrs. St. James; it was doubtful if they could find her if they did; anyway, they would be back within a day or so. So it was in Dolores' arms he died. Dolores closed the white lids over the tired eyes, folded the tiny waxen hands upon the little breast, and bitter tears fell upon the still peaceful baby face of her little lost friend. Then when all was over, Dolores waited with bitter feelings for his mother to come.
She came the next day, in the afternoon. They were a merry party, and much pleased with their trip. Mrs. St. James, on going up to her rooms, finds Hester, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, every blind and shutter closed, and the child—where was he? Then she heard her boy was dead; she would not believe it; nothing, until she stood beside the little silent form, would convince her.