"Like as not she'll go out of her mind, poor lamb!"
The quavering excitement hushed suddenly as she stirred.
"Hold your noise, you!" the old housekeeper adjured the others, pushing them on one side, and patting her anxiously, promising something in a voice that shook, tremulous and coaxing,—as one might dangle the moon to quiet a frantic child.
Up the long corridor came a man's step, and the pattering of a dog. The housekeeper jumped, and ran from the bedside, and the maids clung hysterically together, looking with a scared eagerness at the door. A superstitious terror was still painted on their faces.
Barnaby was not dead. The whole dreadful comedy was scarcely clear to the girl, so dizzy was she with this one miracle, the thing that was impossible, and was true. Shame had not yet burnt up wonder. She lay motionless, with her hands on her heart, listening to his step, and waiting for the sound of a voice that she had never heard.
"How is she?"
Oh strange, kind voice, asking that! Susan caught her breath, remembering who she was not.
The housekeeper, running out, had closed the door nervously, and was posted with her back against it, half in a rapture, and half reproachful.
"Oh, Mr. Barnaby—! Oh, my gracious!"
Collecting herself, she went on in a trembling hurry.