"Those thoughts I constantly repel; And all, methinks, might yet be well, Could I but weep once more; And with true tears of penitence My dreadful state deplore." Southey.
The long hours of night wore away, and the morning broke, bright, fresh, and frosty. Then the long corridor and passages echoed with the sound of hasty footsteps hurrying through them, while the quick, sudden opening and shutting of doors betokened an unusual stir in the Hall. The children were preparing for their journey.
Half an hour later all was silent and still, more so than it had been for days. The children were gone.
Again we enter the sick room. Bertie is no better, but, if anything, worse; his little face more flushed and heated, his burning hands wandering restlessly about, to and fro, as he tosses and turns upon his little cot, his anxious eyes no longer looking mournfully, and as it were imploringly in his mother's face for help from his pain, for Bertie is delirious, and does not even recognise her; his thoughts ramble, and he talks incoherently and strangely.
Mrs. Hopkins often came to see him, bringing, as was her wont, in cases of illness, broths and cooling drinks she had prepared with her own hand; but Bertie was too ill to heed them, and Amy could but look her thanks—words she had none.
It was on returning from one of these visits, with cup and saucer in hand, that she met Frances Strickland.
"Have you been to see Master Bertie?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss," replied Mrs. Hopkins, with a sigh.
"And how is he? Do you think he is any better this morning?"
"No, Miss, I don't. It's my belief he couldn't well be worse; but the doctor'll know better than me. I suppose he'll be here presently."