"She was such a sweet child—was she not, mamma? So lovely, and so loving! I can see her now with her golden curls flying on the breeze and her light feet dancing over the turf! Little Goldilocks, we used to call her sometimes. Goldilocks, Goldilocks, come, and kiss me. Papa forgives you!"
Georgina, who had stood apart weeping against Lord Valentine's shoulder, came forward and fell on her knees by the bed, thrilled to the heart by the tender recollections his words awoke.
"Oh, papa, papa," she sobbed, "poor, little Queenie!"
He reached out and laid one trembling hand on the fair head still crowned with the orange wreath. His words, though they seemed to the physicians but the purposeless ravings of a disordered fancy, burnt themselves upon her memory as if written in fire.
"Georgie, forgive her—she was more sinned against than sinning—and she went mad and avenged the wrongs—remember that when she comes back."
"Queenie is dead, papa," sobbed Lady Valentine.
"Dead—who said that Queenie is dead?" he asked, looking vacantly about him.
The physician came forward and forced a composing draught upon him.
"Do the vagaries of illness often assume such forms as this?" inquired Sydney's clear voice from the foot of the bed, where she stood supporting the form of her hysterical mother.
"As what, miss?" inquired the physician, politely.