"Oh, mamma, how impatient I grow!" she said, at length. "It seems to me I cannot wait longer. I must put the child down and go out again. I cannot bear this dreadful suspense."
"No, no; I will go myself," said Mrs. Carroll, struggling up feebly from the lounge. "You are cold and wet now, my darling. You will get your death out there in the rain. I must not lose both my darlings at once."
But Xenie pushed her back again with gentle force.
"No, mamma, you shall not go—you are already ill," she said. "Let the child lie in your arms, and I will go to the door and see if anyone is coming."
Filled with alternate dread and hope, she went to the door and looked out.
No, there was naught to be seen but the rain and the mist—nothing to be heard but the hollow moan of the ocean, or the shrill, piping voice of the sea birds skimming across the waves.
"It is strange that the maid does not come," she said again, oppressed with the loneliness and brooding terror around her.
She sat down again, and waited impatiently for what seemed a considerable time; then she sprang up restlessly.
"Mamma, I will just walk out a very little way," she said. "I must see if anyone is coming yet."
"You must not go far, then, Xenie." Mrs. Carroll remonstrated.