"Mother died this morning. Garry."
CHAPTER VII
"Where am I?"
"Here, with me."
Low and sweet and tender was the voice. I was in bed and my head was heavily bandaged, so that the cloths weighed upon my eyelids. It was difficult to see, and I was too weak to raise myself, but I seemed to be in semi-darkness. A lamp burning on a small table nearby was turned low. By my bedside some one was sitting, and a soft, gentle hand was holding mine.
"Where is here?" I asked faintly.
"Here—my cabin. Rest, dear."
"Is that you, Berna?"
"Yes, please don't talk."