“I won’t, dear, not the very least,” said Mary, soothingly. “And she is seven miles from home,” she added to herself, in consternation.
Alys’s eyes closed again, and she grew so white that Mary feared she was going to faint.
“What shall I do?” she thought, almost in despair, when, to her indescribable relief, a sound of approaching footsteps made itself heard. She dared not even turn her head to see whose they were, but soon the new-comers stood before her. They were two men from the farm, one, the bailiff, the choice of whom had led to Arthur’s first introduction at the Rectory, a kindly middle-aged man, who looked down on the sad little group before him with fatherly concern.
“Shall I try to lift the young lady, do you think, miss?” he whispered to Mary, but Alys caught the words.
“No, no,” she moaned, “don’t move me. Whatever you do, don’t move me.”
It seemed to Mary that her head was beginning to wander. She glanced up at the bailiff in perplexity.
“She must be moved, miss,” he replied, with decision, in answer to her unspoken question, “and the longer we wait the fainter-like she’ll get. Not to speak of catching rheumatics from the damp, which would be making a bad job a worser, for sure.”
Mary bent her face over Alys’s.
“Dear Miss Cheviott—Alys,” she whispered, “I fear we must move you.”
Alys shivered, but resisted no longer.