“Every one that knows her does,” said the nurse.
“Who?” said Sarah, inquiringly.
“Why, Mave Sullivan,” replied the other; “worn't you spakin' about her?”
“Was I?” said she, “maybe so—what was I sayin'?”
She then put her hand to her forehead, as if she felt pain and confusion; after which she waved the nurse towards her, but on the woman stooping down, she seemed to forget that she had beckoned to her at all.
At this moment Mave and her mother entered, and after looking towards the bed on which she lay, they inquired in a whisper, from her attendant how she was.
The woman pointed hopelessly to her own head, and then looked significantly at Sarah, as if to intimate that her brain was then unsettled.
“There's something wrong here,” she added, in an under tone, and touching her head, “especially since I tould her what had happened.”
“Is she acquainted with everything?” asked her mother.
“She is,” replied the other; “she knows that her father is to die on Friday an' that you swore agin' him.”