Sister Anne came across the room quickly, setting down something on the table as she passed. She touched the girl on the shoulder.
“My dear, what is it?”
There was a long sobbing breath, and Mabel turned, rising as she turned, and clutched the nurse with one shaking hand, pointing out with the other.
“There!” she said. “There—look!”
“Well, my dear, what is it? I see nothing. It is a little dark!”
“Dark!” said the other. “You call that dark! Why, why, it is black—black!”
The nurse drew her softly backwards to the chair, turning her from the window. She recognised nervous fear; but no more than that. But Mabel tore herself free, and wheeled again.
“You call that a little dark,” she said. “Why, look, sister, look!”
Yet there was nothing remarkable to be seen. In front rose up the feathery hand of an elm, then the shuttered windows across the court, the roof, and above that the morning sky, a little heavy and dusky as before a storm; but no more than that.
“Well, what is it, my dear? What do you see?”