The words came impulsively, and Monica dropped a warm hand upon the transparent flesh of her sister's. Her action was promptly rewarded by a feeble pressure of acknowledgment.
"I—I knew you would."
After that neither spoke for some moments. Tears were softly falling down Monica's pretty cheeks. But her sister's eyes were closed again. It was almost as if she were gathering her strength and thoughts for a final effort.
Presently Monica grew alarmed. She dashed the tears from her eyes, and bent over the bed.
"Shall I fetch nurse? Is there anything I can do?" she asked eagerly.
The big eyes opened at once, and the light in them was a calm smile. The dying woman looked almost happy. To Monica's growing understanding of such things her happiness might have been the inspiration of one who sees beyond the narrow focus of human life; whose swiftly approaching end had revealed to her tired eyes a glimpse of the wonderful world she was approaching, that golden life awaiting all, be they saint or sinner.
"I don't want any one but you, dear—now." The voice was tired, but a sense of peace was conveyed in the gentle pressure of her thin fingers upon the soft warm flesh of her sister's hand. "I—I want to tell you of—things. And—and I want you to promise me something. Oh, Mon, as you love me, as you love my boy, I want you to give me your promise."
Monica seated herself on the edge of the bed and tearfully gave her promise with all the impulsiveness which her love inspired.
"You only have to tell me what it is. I could promise you anything, Elsie. I have only one desire in the world now; it is to—to help you."
Her sister's eyes closed for a moment. Then they opened again.