“Yes, Miss Imelda, it is I. Have you decided to return to life? I was beginning to fear you were going to sleep right over into the next world.”
“Why, what time is it?” was Imelda’s next question, still surprised and puzzled.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock! Why, Mary, you ought to have called me ere this. Mrs. Boswell ought to have been relieved some time ago. But why is it so dark? I thought I had the windows open.”
“So you had. I made free to close them but will open them now,” saying which the girl unfastened and opened the shutters. Instead of the bright sunshine, as Imelda had expected, only a hazy twilight filled it with dim shadows.
“What does this mean?” she stammered. “Why, it is quite dark. Did you not say that it is almost eight o’clock?” She was growing impatient. Mary’s laugh again rang through the room.
“Yes,” she said “it is eight o’clock, not in the morning but in the evening.”
Imelda was sitting bolt upright in bed now.
“What! Do you mean to say that I have slept all day through?”
“Just that, and nothing else.”