"So I am going to die, they tell me!" she says, whisperingly—says it simply and mournfully.
Gerard cannot answer; only he flings himself forward upon the bed, and devours her thin hand with miserable kisses.
"Perhaps it is not true! Oh, I hope it is not, St. John!" she says, falling to weeping; in her feebleness and great dread of that goal to which all our highways and byways and field-paths lead:
"Death, and great darkness after death!"
Still no answer.
"Cannot they do anything for me?" she asks piteously.
He lifts his head; and in his eyes—the eyes that have not wept more than twice since he was a little white-frocked child—stand heavy burning tears.
"Nothing, darling, I'm afraid," he answers, in a rough choked voice.
"There is no hope, then?"
"Oh, poor little one! why do you torture me with such questions? I dare not tell you a lie!"