Only once in the twenty-four hours did a smile light up the set face, and that was when Bridgie O’Shaughnessy appeared for her afternoon visit, and seated herself by the bedside. On one of these occasions, a week after the surgeon’s first visit, Whitey went out for, her daily walk, and Sylvia watched her go and peered anxiously round the screen to make sure that the door was really shut. Then she stretched out her hand, and gripped Bridgie by the wrist. It was a very thin, feeble-looking hand, but the grip had nothing feeble about it—it was almost painful in its strength, and the brown eyes had a glazed misery of expression which made Bridgie tremble at the thought of what was to come.
“Bridget O’Shaughnessy, you call yourself my friend. Will you tell me the truth?”
“I’ll not promise that, me dear. I’ll not deceive you about anything if I can help it, but you are an invalid, and there are some questions which you should not ask me. Only the doctor should answer them.”
But Sylvia went on with her story as if she had not heard the protest.
“The other morning Sir Alfred Heap came to see my foot. He said very little about it to me, and after examining it, went out of the room to consult with Dr Horton. Aunt Margaret was waiting for them on the landing, and they were not quick enough in shutting the door. I heard what she said. To-morrow morning Sir Alfred is coming again. Bridgie,—is he going to cut off my foot?”
“He is not, darling. He is going to give you chloroform and do something to the bone to try to make it sound and healthy again.”
“And if that fails, will he cut it off then?”
“He will operate again, and go on trying as long as he dare.”
“And if everything else fails, then—”
“Yes, Sylvia,” said Bridgie gently.