"No—I must. There's not much time. I suppose—I've—I've made you very unhappy?"
"Yes—but now we have you again—our dear, dear Hester."
"You can't care. And I—can't say—I'm sorry. Don't you remember?"
His face quivered. He understood her reference to the long fits of naughtiness of her childhood, when neither nurse, nor governess, nor "Aunt Alice" could ever get out of her the stereotyped words "I'm sorry." But he could not trust himself to speak. And it seemed as though she understood his silence, for she feebly moved her uninjured hand toward him; and he raised it to his lips.
"Did I fall—a long way? I don't recollect—anything."
"You had a bad fall, my poor child. Be brave!—the doctor will help you."
He longed to speak to her of her mother, to tell her the truth. It was borne in upon him that he must tell her—if she was to die; that in the last strait, Alice's arms must be about her. But the doctor must decide.
Presently, she was a little easier. The warm stimulant dulled the consciousness which came in gusts.
Once or twice, as she recognized the faces near her, there was a touch of life, even of mockery. There was a moment when she smiled at Catharine—
"You're sweet. You won't say—'I told you so'!"