"Then let it rest," she murmured, and so drifted out again, this time for ever, into the land of shadows, glad to go and rest.
*****
Denise, half wild, had stumbled in alone, sobbing, shivering, unnoticed, as the household worked for the two lives.
Cecil had been put to bed; his hip was hurt; he lay still and exhausted; sometimes asking for "Cyrrie—my Cyrrie."
"Not you, mumsie—Cyrrie," he said fretfully. "I couldn't pull Cyrrie out—fetch Cyrrie."
Mrs Stanson, weeping for her eldest charge, came in. Seeing her, hope leapt up suddenly into Denise's heart.
"The boy, milady?" Mrs Stanson sobbed. "No hope. We've laid him to rest."
"And—Mrs Carteret?"
"Came to, and passed away, milady."
The wave of hope swelled high. For as all the punishment had fallen on the woman who lay still in the pretty drawing-room, it might lie on her still. No one else knew.