She got up and went over to stand beside her.
So young, such a child, it seemed impossible that she was already a wife, this girl lying there with her soft hair falling all about her.
Gladys sighed and walked over to the window. It must be a great thing to be loved, she thought rather sadly; nobody had ever loved her; no man had ever looked at her as Kettering looked at little Christine. . . . She opened the window and looked out into the darkness.
It was a mild, damp night. Grey mist veiled the garden and shut out the stars; everything was very silent.
If only Christine's mother had been here to take the responsibility of it all, she thought longingly; she had so little influence with Christine herself. She closed the window and went back to the bedside.
Christine was moving restlessly. As Gladys looked down at her she began to laugh in her sleep—a little chuckle of unaffected joy.
Gladys smiled, too, involuntarily. She was happy in her dreams, at any rate, she thought with a sense of relief.
And then suddenly Christine woke with a start. She sat up in bed, throwing out her arms.
"Jimmy——" But it was a cry of terror, not of joy.
"Jimmy—Jimmy—don't hurt me. . . . oh!"
She was sobbing now—wild, pitiful sobs.