“What is the time?” asked Algitha. A clock had struck, outside. “Could it be the clock of Craddock church? The sound must have stolen down hill, through the still air.”
“It struck three.”
“You ought to get some sleep,” cried Algitha. “Remember what the doctor said.”
“I feel so nervous, so anxious. I could not sleep.”
“Just for a few minutes,” Algitha urged. Hadria consented at last, to go into her room, which adjoined her sister’s, and lie down on the bed. The door was open between the rooms. “You must do the same,” she stipulated.
There was silence for some minutes, but the silence swarmed with the ghosts of voices. The air seemed thick with shapes, and terrors, and strange warnings.
The doctor had not disguised the fact that the patient was fighting hard for life, and that it was impossible to predict the result. Everything depended on whether her strength would hold out. The weakness of the heart was an unfortunate element in the case. To save strength and give plentiful nourishment, without heightening the fever, must be the constant effort. Algitha’s experience stood her in good stead. Her practical ability had been quickened and disciplined by her work. She had trained herself in nursing, among other things.
Hadria’s experience was small. She had to summon her intelligence to the rescue. The Fullerton stock had never been deficient in this particular. In difficult moments, when rule and tradition had done their utmost, Hadria had often some original device to suggest, to fit the individual case, which tided them over a crisis, or avoided some threatening predicament.
“Are you sleeping?” asked Algitha, very softly.
“No,” said Hadria; “I feel very uneasy to-night. I think I will go down.”