"You've come to ask about Miss Judy," she said, lowering her voice. "I'm afraid she isn't any better. Doris came on ahead of me, but I haven't seen her since, so that I have had no news from Miss Judy for nearly an hour."
"I—I didn't know she was ill," said Lynn, simply.
"Well, your grandmother did. I sent her word last night that we hardly expected Miss Judy to live till daybreak." Sidney spoke a little severely, and she looked at him with frank curiosity.
"I am sincerely grieved. What is it?" the young man faltered.
"It seems to be the same old weakness of the heart that she's always had. Any kind of a shock has always made it worse, and this foolish lawsuit of that crazy Spaniard's—over an old no-account note of her father's—gave her the hardest blow she's had this many a year, poor little soft soul. It didn't make any difference to her that the note wasn't worth the paper it was written on, and that it had been outlawed long ago. She has always had her own queer little notions about things, and you couldn't shake her, either, mild as she has always been. And she's always worshipped her father, so that she couldn't bear to have anything against his name. He never worried himself much about his debts. The major was very slack-twisted in business matters, just between you and me. But the angel Gabriel, himself, couldn't make Miss Judy believe that, even if he were mean enough to try. Last night she came by my house, going on to see Mr. Pettus. She hoped he might buy the house, and that she could raise the money in that way. But she fainted before she could tell him what she wanted, and he carried her home in his arms. Such a poor, light, little mite of a thing! She's been unconscious most of the time since, but whenever she comes to herself she tries to say something about selling the house—in a whisper, so that Miss Sophia won't hear. Then she begins to worry, wondering what Miss Sophia will do if the house is sold, and honestly believing that poor Miss Sophia will feel disgraced if it isn't, when Miss Sophia neither knows nor cares a blessed thing about the whole matter, so that she's let alone to eat and sleep. I am going into the room now to stay with Miss Judy while Doris goes home for a little rest. She wouldn't leave the bedside for an instant last night. Wait for her," Sidney added, assuming a blank, meaningless expression. "When she comes out she can tell you how the poor little soul is."
With a strange tightening of the throat and a tender aching in his breast, Lynn then stood waiting, with his eyes on Miss Judy's window. It seemed a long time before Doris came out, and when she finally appeared, there was something indefinable in her manner which made him feel that she had not come of her own accord. But she was very calm, very quiet, very sad, and very pale; and her soft dark eyes were softer and darker than ever with unshed tears. She merely said that her mother had sent her to say that there was no change. The doctor had decided that there could be but one. And when she had said this she quietly turned back toward Miss Judy's room. No, she answered in reply to his keenly disappointed inquiry, she was not going home. She could rest and sleep—after—Miss Judy was gone. There was so little time now that they could stay together.
XXVI
THE TRAGEDY
The news of Miss Judy's illness reached the judge as he was leaving the tavern for the opening of court. It was then too late for him to go at once in person to ask how she was, as he wished to do, and as he otherwise would have done. But he nevertheless turned back and went to his own room, long enough to write her a few hurried lines telling of his deep and tender concern.