“No,” she said, bravely. “I’ve not really suffered much—there’s nothing for you to upset yourself about.”
He went out, and she called Dr. Ramsay. “You haven’t told him what I’ve gone through, have you? I don’t want him to know.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ve told him to go to bed.”
“Oh, I’m glad. He can’t bear not to get his proper night’s rest.... How long d’you think it will last—already I feel as if I’d been tortured for ever, and it seems endless.”
“Oh, it’ll soon be over now, I hope.”
“I’m sure I’m going to die,” she whispered; “I feel that life is being gradually drawn out of me—I shouldn’t mind if it weren’t for Eddie. He’ll be so cut up.”
“What nonsense!” said the nurse, “you all say you’re going to die.”
Edward—dear, manly, calm, and pure-minded fellow as he was—went to bed quietly and soon was fast asleep. But his slumbers were somewhat troubled: generally he enjoyed the heavy dreamless sleep of the man who has no nerves and plenty of exercise. To-night, however, he dreamt. He dreamt not only that one cow was sick, but that all his cattle had fallen ill—the cows stood about with gloomy eyes and humpbacks, surly and dangerous, evidently with their livers totally deranged; the oxen were “blown,” and lay on their backs with legs kicking feebly in the air.
“You must send them all to the butcher’s,” said the vet.; “there’s nothing to be done with them.”
“Good Lord deliver us,” said Edward; “I shan’t get four bob a stone for them.”