“You have heard nothing of her friends yet, Norman?”
“Nothing,” he answered, huskily; then stood silent, looking down at the poor little creature, who in her delirium was trying to sing her favorite song, but the sweet loving words rose hoarse and tuneless from the sore and swollen throat.
“It is very strange that we can hear nothing of her friends,” Mrs. de Vere said, thoughtfully. “Poor little darling! she will have to lie in an unnamed grave.”
“Don’t, mother—you hurt me,” the young man said, pleadingly.
He was scarcely more than a boy, and could not control his emotion. With a long, deep sigh he added:
“I have so longed that she should live to be a dear little sister to me. You know, mother, how I always wished for a sister’s love.”
“I thought you had got over that—since you married,” she said, with some uneasiness.
Somehow the thought of his fondness for Sweetheart was not pleasant to his mother. There hung over her always the dread of Camille’s jealous anger. She said to herself:
“Foolish boy! He does not understand his wife, else he would not display such fondness for the child she hates.”
But she dared not breathe her thoughts aloud, lest he should reproach her for her share in his marriage. Her cue was silence.