had merely pressed hands by way of greeting, and now stood apart looking at each other solemnly.
"Has she told you anything?" said Harold.
"No—only that she is wretched. O, I think I would bear a great deal of unhappiness to save her from having any more."
A painful thrill passed through Harold, and showed itself in his face with that pale rapid flash which can never be painted. Esther pressed her hands together, and said, timidly, though it was from an urgent prompting,
"There is nothing in all this place—nothing since ever I came here—I could care for so much as that you should sit down by her now, and that she should see you when she wakes."
Then with delicate instinct, she added, just laying her hand on his sleeve, "I know you would have come. I know you meant it. But she is asleep now. Go gently before she wakes."
Harold just laid his right hand for an instant on the back of Esther's as it rested on his sleeve, and then stepped softly to his mother's bedside.
An hour afterwards, when Harold had laid his mother's pillow afresh, and sat down again by her, she said,
