“If a person have a second paralytic stroke,” she said—“remember I want the simple truth—what is the usual consequence? Can the patient recover?”
For a moment, the man of large experience hesitated, then he said,
“After a second stroke, as a rule, there can be but one thing more—a third——”
“Which is——” Phemie suggested.
“Death.”
She turned away—she felt suffocating. Death! He had been her best friend through the most trying period of her life; and she had loved—oh, heavens! in spite of all faults and shortcomings, she had loved him.
“I should like you to see my husband,” she faltered out. And then the doctor was very sorry for his words; but he went down to Hastings to see Captain Stondon notwithstanding.
She wanted to get him back to Marshlands; but the medical attendants shook their heads. She would have given anything to be able to move him to his own home; but the physicians said that unless a decided change for the better occurred such a journey was not to be thought of.
“You would like to get back, dear,” she said to him, when the spring buds were jutting out—when the primroses were springing in the hedges—when the hyacinths in Fairlight Glen were showing for flower; and the poor lips that could now answer in nothing save monosyllables, framed the one word—“Yes.”
“Shall I try to move you there, darling?” she asked; and the dim eyes lighted up with pleasure, and the wan fingers clasped hers tighter, and over the white lips passed the monosyllable “Yes!” once more.