"If you mean Miss Faith, she has been here a long time."
The doctor knew that! if she came when she was called. He had stopped to eat his dinner.
"I mean her, of course," he said with his tone a little subdued. "I shouldn't think her mother would have let her come—such a night!—" Which meant very plainly that Dr. Harrison would not have let her.—"Is she in there with the woman now?"
"Yes."
The doctor went with grave aspect to the door of communication between the two rooms and softly opened it and went in; so softly, that Faith, engaged in her reading, did not hear anything; the sick woman's eyes were the first that perceived him. Hers rested on him a moment—then came back to Faith, and then again met the doctor's; but not just as they had been wont. And her first words bore out his impression.
"You may come in," she said, slowly and distinctly,—"I'm not afraid of you to-night."
He came forward, looked at her, touched her hand, kindly; and then without a word turned to Faith.
Faith did not dare ask a question, but her eyes put it silently.
"She don't want anything," said he meaningly. "Not from me. She may have anything she fancies to have."
Faith's eyes went back to the other face. That the doctor's words had been understood there too, was evident from the little flitting colour, and the sick woman lay still with closed eyes, clasping Faith's hand as if she were holding herself back from drifting out on "that great and unknown sea." But she roused herself and spoke hurriedly. "Won't somebody pray for me?"