Here at last was the bridge, and the Bannisdale gate. Laura shut her eyes, and reckoned up the minutes that remained. Then, as they sped up the park, she wrestled indignantly with herself. She was outraged by her own callousness towards this death in front of her. "Oh! let me think of her! Let me be good to her!" she cried, in dumb appeal to some power beyond herself. She recalled her father. She tried with all her young strength to forget the man beside her—and those piteous facts that lay between them.
* * * * *
In Augustina's room—darkness—except for one shaded light. The doors were all open, that the poor tormented lungs might breathe.
Laura went in softly, the Squire following. A nurse rose.
"She has rallied wonderfully," she said in a cheerful whisper, as she approached them, finger on lip.
"Laura!" said a sighing voice.
It came from a deep old-fashioned chair, in which sat Mrs. Fountain, propped by many pillows.
Laura went up to her, and dropping on a stool beside her, the girl tenderly caressed the wasted hand that had itself no strength to move towards her.
In the few hours since Laura had last seen her, a great change had passed over Mrs. Fountain. Her little face, usually so red, had blanched to parchment white, and the nervous twitching of the head, in the general failure of strength, had almost ceased. She lay stilled and refined under the touch of death; and the sweetness of her blue eyes had grown more conscious and more noble.
"Laura—I'm a little better. But you mustn't go again. Alan—she must stay!"