"Yes, dear?" she spoke softly.
"I couldn't bear it any longer," said the voice of Louis. "I just had
to waken you."
She raised the gas, and her eyes blinked as she stared at him. His
bedclothes were horribly disarranged.
"Are you in pain?" she asked, smoothing the blankets.
"No. But I'm so ill. I--I don't want to frighten you--"
"The doctor said you'd feel ill. It's the shock, you know."
She stroked his hand. He did indubitably look very ill. His appearance
of woe, despair, and dreadful apprehension was pitiable in the highest
degree. With a gesture of intense weariness he declined food, nor
could she persuade him to take anything whatever.
"You'll be ever so much better to-morrow. I'll sit up with you. You
were bound to feel worse in the night."
"It's more than shock that I've got," he muttered. "I say, Rachel,
it's all up with me. I _know_ I'm done for. You'll have to do the
best you can."
The notion shot through her head that possibly, after all, the doctor
might have misjudged the case. Suppose Louis were to die in the night?
Suppose the morning found her a widow? The world was full of the
strangest happenings.... Then she was herself again and immovably
cheerful in her secret heart.
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