in one of the pauses of inaction which she had fought off since morning, was reliving, for the hundredth time, her few moments at Bessy’s bedside.…
She had been summoned in the course of the afternoon, and stealing into the darkened room, had bent over the bed while the nurses noiselessly withdrew. There lay the white face which had been burnt into her inward vision—the motionless body, and the head stirring ceaselessly, as though to release the agitation of the imprisoned limbs. Bessy’s eyes turned to her, drawing her down.
“Am I going to die, Justine?”
“No.”
“The pain is … so awful.…”
“It will pass … you will sleep.…"
“Cicely”
“She has gone for a walk. You’ll see her presently.”
The eyes faded, releasing Justine. She stole away, and the nurses came back.
Bessy had spoken of Cicely—but not a word of her husband! Perhaps her poor dazed mind groped for him, or perhaps it shrank from his name.… Justine was thankful for her silence. For the moment her heart was bitter against Amherst. Why, so soon after her appeal and his answer, had he been false to the
spirit of their agreement? This unannounced, unex-
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