"'No, no, mother,' I answered.
"She gave a deep sigh, and looked at them as if she were Lady Macbeth.
"'Gabrielle,' she said again, 'I can't live any longer without your father. I have made this knife sharp, and it won't take long.'
"Then she turned and left the room. Peters ran for cook, and they went upstairs after her, and I rushed for Dr. Mackenzie."
"It was a fearful ordeal for you," I said, "and you behaved very bravely; but you must not think too much about your mother's condition, nor about any words which she happened to say. She is highly feverish at present, and is not accountable for her actions. Sit down now, please, and take a glass of wine yourself."
"No, thank you—I never take wine."
"I'm glad to hear you say so, for in that case a glass of this good claret will do wonders for you. Here, I'm going to pour one out—now drink it off at once."
She obeyed me with a patient sort of smile. She was very pale, but the wine brought some colour into her cheeks.
"I am interested in your story," I said, after a pause. "Particularly in what you told me about your poor father. He must have been an interesting man, for you to treasure his memory so deeply. Do you mind describing him to me?"
She flushed up when I spoke. I saw that tears were very near her eyes, and she bit her lips to keep back emotion.