“Would you let a man die of heartbreak when your kindness would save his life?”
Annette was terribly excited.
Her slight frame trembled with emotion, and her large black eyes gleamed like stars out of her pale face, wasted and worn from recent illness. Her expression was one of the keenest anguish.
Daisie looked up in wonder at her little friend, faltering:
“Oh, Annette, how came you here at this midnight hour? Who told you what had happened?”
The words produced a terrible effect on the little brunette.
She gasped for breath, and turned as ashen pale as the dying man on the bed, seeming as if about to sink to the floor, until Mrs. Fleming hurriedly forced her into a chair.
Then, utterly disregarding her friend’s question, she uttered wildly:
“Royall Sherwood must not die! He must not die, for then the man that shot him would be a cruel murderer! And I am sure he would not wish it. He did not mean it. He made a terrible mistake, and—but what am I saying?” fearfully. “I don’t know anything about this, except that I’m so sorry—so sorry—and Mr. Sherwood’s life must be saved, no matter by what sacrifice! Listen to me, Daisie Bell: You must not refuse anything he asks you to do, for if you leave him he will surely die, and you will be his murderer, not that other one. No, not that other one, for I’m sure he made an awful mistake, and—and——Oh, stay here to nurse Mr. Sherwood; do, dear Daisie, and I will stay and help you all I can.”
They scarcely knew what to make of her incoherent words, and both women united in trying to calm her, Daisie stroking her little dark head tenderly, while Mrs. Fleming said kindly: