Presently she heard steps and voices, and rushed to the door, glad that her vigil with the seemingly dead woman was ended.
Everard Dawn, alarmed at the duration of Cinthia’s swoon, had brought a physician with him, and exclaimed as soon as he saw his sister:
“Has Cinthia recovered yet?”
“You can see for yourself,” she answered, in a dazed way, as she ushered them into the room.
The two men, almost blinded by the brightness of the room, after the outer storm and darkness, advanced to the sofa and bent over the patient in keen anxiety, while Mrs. Flint blurted out, nervously:
“Everard; what is the matter? Why did you bring that strange woman here instead of Cinthia?”
At the same moment the old doctor added:
“It is not little Cinthia but a stranger.”
Everard Dawn bent down with an air of incredulity that quickly changed as he saw what a terrible mistake he had made.
The cry that rose from his tortured heart, the baffled purpose, the agony, the pain, rang forever in the ears of the two who heard it. Then exhausted nature gave way. He fell writhing to the floor in convulsions.