Mrs. Middleton obeyed. The sound of unfastening the casement awoke Sarah, who was resting in an easy-chair. She sat up and looked round.
The breeze had died away, as Harry had foretold it would, and that day had dawned as gloriously as the two that had preceded it. A lark was soaring and singing—a mere point in the dome of blue.
Sissy lay and looked a while. Then she said, "Brackenhill?"
Aunt Harriet considered for a moment before she replied: "A little to the right, my darling."
The dying eyes were turned a little to the right. Seven miles away, yet the old gray manor-house rose before Aunt Harriet's eyes, warm on its southern slope, with its shaven lawns and whispering trees and the long terrace with its old stone balustrade. Perhaps Sissy saw it too.
"Darling, it is warm and light," the old lady said at last.
Sissy smiled. Her eyes wandered from the window. "Aunt, you promised," she whispered.
There was a pause. Suddenly, Sissy spoke, more strongly and clearly than she had spoken for hours: "Tell Percival—my love to Miss Lisle."
"Fetch him," said Mrs. Middleton to Sarah, with a quick movement of her hand toward the door. As the old woman crossed the room Sissy looked after her. In less than a minute Percival came in. His dark hair was tumbled over his forehead, and his eyes, though passionately eager, were heavy with sleep. As he came forward Sissy looked up and repeated faintly, like an echo, "My love to Miss Lisle, Percival." Her glance met his and welcomed him. But even as he said "Sissy!" her eyes closed, and when, after a brief interval, they opened again, he was conscious of a change. He spoke and took her hand, but she did not heed. "She does not know me!" he said.