“I will go to your mam-ma, dear,” she said; “but you must be very good and stay quietly here and go to sleep.”
Then she laid the little creature’s head on her own pillow, folded the sheet under her chin, gave her a parting kiss, and went into the next room closing the door behind her.
Dawn was just breaking, and without striking a light, Grace walked over to where Mrs. Brady lay, moaning and tossing, muttering words too indistinct to catch.
“Nettie,” and her friend shook her vigorously; “Nettie,”—but no sign of recognition came. “Nettie dear, do speak to me,”—not a word of reply was uttered.
For a moment Miss Moffat stood helpless, then she went to that part of the house where she supposed Susan slept.
“I am so sorry to disturb you,” she said, after awaking the woman, with that courtesy which was a part of her nature when addressing those below her in rank, “but I fear Mrs. Brady is very ill. Do you think you could go to the house of one of the men and send him for Dr. Girvan?”
“What is the matter with her?” asked the woman brusquely.
“I cannot tell; she is moaning and restless and does not seem to know me in the least.”
“It’s the fever, God help us,” said Susan. “I’ll waste no time, but go for the doctor myself.”
“What! in the middle of the night?” exclaimed Grace.