I hurried from him to the side of the bed.
"Muriel," Mrs. Hillier was saying. "My Muriel!"
The girl, at a signal from me, came across, and kneeling down, took her mother's hand, placing it against her own cheek. The hand moved slowly upwards and smoothed the hair.
"Ah!" ejaculated the dear woman, contentedly. And her head drooped on the pillow. I adjusted the clothes and bent down to listen.
"Wonder how long the doctor will be," whispered Mr. Hillier anxiously, "before he comes back."
"There is nothing for him to do now, sir," I replied.
I sat up all that night—I could not tell you why—and the others rested. The two girls went off tearfully to Katherine's room; and I could hear them whispering confidences to each other until the early hours of the morning. Breakfast was ready when they all came into the sitting room; I might have spared myself the trouble of preparing anything but the coffee. The blinds remained down; the cheerful sounds of a waking day in the gardens had a jarring note.
"The funeral on Sunday," I suggested to Mr. Hillier. "Will that be convenient?" I tried to speak in business-like tones.
"Please take charge of it, Weston," he begged. "I feel rather—rather knocked over."
"You ought to stay away from the Arsenal for a week, sir."