Much annoyed, Sydney rose quickly but softly from her seat, and was hastening across the room, when Eugenia’s voice recalled her.
“What was that, Sydney?” she inquired. “I was not asleep.”
“I am so sorry, dear,” said Sydney, looking very guilty, the colour mounting to her forehead, “I am afraid it is my little boy. You know I was obliged to bring him; but I hoped this would not have happened. Mrs Grier gave us rooms at the other end of the house on purpose; but I suppose nurse, thinking him safely asleep, ventured along the passage.”
For a minute Eugenia did not speak. Then she said, gently, “Never mind, Sydney. Perhaps it is best. Kiss me, Sydney.” And when her sister’s face was closely pressed to her own, she whispered, “Even to you, dear, I can hardly tell how terrible is my feeling of loss—loss of what I never had, you might almost say. But oh, if you knew how I looked forward to what that little life would be to me! Sydney, if you are ever inclined to blame me, pity me too. I need it sorely.”
The sisters seemed almost to have changed places. Sydney could hardly answer for the tears that choked her. Eugenia was perfectly calm.
“Poor Eugenia, dear Eugenia!” said Sydney at last; “I do know a little at least of what you must be feeling. There have even been times in the last few days when I have not wanted to see my baby—when I have felt almost angry with him for looking so strong and healthy. Oh, poor Eugenia!” Eugenia drew her sister’s face down and kissed her again.
“Do you remember, Sydney,” she said, suddenly, “a day, long ago, when we were putting camelias in our hair? Mine fell off the stalk, and you said you would not wear yours either, because I had none.”
“Yes,” said Sydney, “I remember.” Then they were both silent.
“I should like to see your boy,” said Eugenia, in a little—“not to-day, perhaps, but before you go. Bring him to me the last thing, that I may kiss him.”
Sydney did so, “the last thing” before leaving the next morning. And thus the sisters parted again.