The girl started and looked round. The dying woman's eyes were wide open.
"Come here." The voice was low, but the words were quite distinct. It was the first time she had spoken for more than twelve hours.
Monica passed swiftly back to her place at the bedside.
"Oh, Elsie, Elsie," she cried, "I'm so glad you have spoken. So, so glad."
A faint smile flickered gently over the sick woman's emaciated features.
"Are you?"
"Yes, yes. Oh, Elsie, you feel better, stronger, don't you? Say you feel better. I—I know you do."
Monica's last words came hesitatingly, for even while she was speaking a negative movement from the sick woman told her how vain were her hopes.
"It is no use, Mon. But I'm perfectly easy—now. That's why I called you. I want to talk about—him. You—you—love my little son, don't you?" There was pleading in the voice as the woman asked the question. "I saw you bending over him just now, and—and I thought—hoped you did."
"Oh, Elsie, he is yours. How could I help but love him?"