So as I grew better and stronger she seemed to lose her cheerfulness. Always she had that anxious, wistful look. Once came a sound from the kitchen like stifled sobbing, and again in the night I heard her cry. Then the time came when I was well enough to get up, to go away.
I dressed, looking like the cadaverous ghost I felt myself to be. She was there in the kitchen, sitting quietly, waiting.
"Berna," I called.
She came, with a smile lighting up her face.
"I'm going."
The smile vanished, and left her with that high proud look, yet behind it was a lurking fear.
"You're going?" she faltered.
"Yes," I said roughly, "I'm going."
She did not speak.
"Are you ready?" I went on.