'Bridget—why did you do it?' The voice was low and full of horror.
'What do you mean? I made a mistake—that's all!'
'Bridget—you knew it was George! You couldn't be mistaken. Miss Eustace says—in the letter'—she pointed to it—'they asked you about his hands. Do you remember how you used to mock at them?'
'As if one could remember after a year and a half!'
'No, you couldn't forget, Bridget—a thing like that—I know you couldn't. And what made you do it! Did you think I had forgotten George?'
At that the tears streamed down her face, unheeded. She approached her sister piteously.
'Bridget, tell me what he looked like! Did you speak to him—did you see his eyes open? Oh my poor George!—and I here—never thinking of him'—she broke off incoherently, twisting her hands. 'Miss Eustace says he was wounded in two places—severely—that she's afraid there's no hope. Did they say that to you, Bridget—tell me!—for Heaven's sake tell me!'
'You'll make yourself ill,' said Bridget harshly. 'You'd better lie down, and let me pack for you.'
Nelly laughed out.
'As if I'd ever let you do anything for me any more! No, that's done with. You've been so accustomed to manage me all these years. You thought you could manage me now—you thought you could let George die—and I should never know—and you'd make me marry—William Farrell. Bridget—I hate you!'