"You mean she is worse?" He looked at her keenly.

It was exactly what she did mean. Olga had been growing steadily worse all day. Yet when abruptly he turned to leave her, Muriel laid a hasty hand upon his arm.

"Nick," she said, and her voice was almost imploring, "don't go in!

Please don't go in!"

He stopped short. "Why not?"

She removed her hand quickly. "It's so dangerous--besides being unnecessary. Won't you be sensible about it?"

He gave his head a queer upward jerk, and stood as one listening, not looking at her. "What for?"

She could not think of any very convincing reason for the moment. Yet it was imperative that he should see the matter as she saw it.

"Suppose I had not had it," she ventured, "what would you have done?"

"Packed you off to the cottage again double quick," said Nick promptly.

It was the answer she had angled for. She seized upon it. "Well, tell me why."

He spun round on his heels and faced her. He was blinking very rapidly. "You asked me that question once before," he said. "And out of a sentimental consideration for your feelings--I didn't answer it. Do you really want an answer this time, or shall I go on being sentimentally considerate?"

She heard the old subtle jeering note in his voice, but its effect upon her was oddly different from what it had ever been before. It did not anger her, nor did it wholly frighten her. It dawned upon her suddenly that, though possibly it lay in his power to hurt her, he would not do so.

She answered him with composure. "I don't want you to be anything but sensible, Nick. And it isn't sensible to expose yourself to unnecessary risk. It's wrong."

"That's my lookout," said Nick.

It was indubitably; but she wanted very much to gain her point.

"Won't you at least keep away unless she asks for you?" she urged.

"You seem mighty anxious to get rid of me," said Nick.

"I am not," she returned quickly. "I am not. You know it isn't that."

"Do I?" he said quizzically. "It's one of the few things I shouldn't have known without being told. Well, I'm sorry I can't consent to be sensible as you call it. I am quite sure personally that there isn't the slightest danger. It isn't so infectious at this stage, you know.

Perhaps by-and-by, when she is through the worst, I will think about it."

He spoke lightly, but she was aware of the anxiety that underlay the words. She said no more, reminding herself that argument with Nick was always futile, sometimes worse. Nevertheless she found some comfort in the smile with which he left her. He had refused to treat with her, but his enmity--if enmity it could be called--was no longer active. He had proclaimed a truce which she knew he would not break.

Olga was delirious that night, and privately Muriel was glad that she had not been able to exclude him; for his control over the child was wonderful. As once with a tenderness maternal he had soothed her, so now he soothed Olga, patiently, steadfastly, even with a certain cheeriness. It all came back to her as she watched him, the strength of the man, his selfless devotion.

She could see that both doctor and nurse thought very seriously of the child. The former paid a late visit, but said very little beyond advising her to rest if she could in an adjacent room. Both Nick and the nurse seconded this, and, seeing there was nothing that she could do, she gave way in the matter, lying down as she was with but small expectation of sleep. But she was wearier than she knew, and the slumber into which she fell was deep, and would have lasted for some hours undisturbed.

It was Nick who roused her, and starting up at his touch, she knew instantly that what they had all mutely feared had drawn very near.

His face told her at a glance, for he made no effort to dissemble.

"The nurse thinks you had better come," was all he said.

She pushed the hair from her forehead, and turned without a word to obey the summons. But at the door something checked her, something cried aloud within her, bidding her pause. She stopped. Nick was close behind her. Swiftly, obedient to the voice that cried, she stretched out her hand to him. He gripped it fast, and she was conscious for an instant of a curious gladness, a willingness to leave it in his hold, that she had never experienced before. But at the door of Olga's room he softly relinquished it, and drew back.

Olga was lying propped on pillows, and breathing quickly. The nurse was bending over her with a gla.s.s, but Olga's face was turned away.

She was watching the door.

As Muriel came to her, the light eyes brightened to quick intelligence, and the parted lips tried to speak. But no sound came forth, and a frown of pain succeeded the effort.

Muriel stooped swiftly and grasped the slender hand that lay clenched upon the sheet.

"There, darling! Don't try to talk. It hurts you so. We are both here, Nick and I, and we understand all about it."

It was the first time she had ever voluntarily coupled herself with him. It came to her instinctively to do it in that moment.

But Olga had something to say, something apparently that must be said.

With infinite difficulty she forced a husky whisper. Muriel stooped lower to catch it, so low that her face was almost touching the face upon the pillow.

"Muriel," came haltingly from the parched lips, "there's something--I want--to say to you--about Nick."

Muriel felt the blood surging at her temples as the faint words reached her. She would have given anything to know that he was out of earshot.

"Won't you say it in the morning, darling?" she said, almost with pleading in her voice. "It's so late now."

It was not late. It was very, very early--the solemn hour when countless weary ones fall into their long sleep. And the moment she had spoken, her heart smote her. Was she for her own peace of mind trying to silence the child's last words on earth?

"No, never mind, dear," she amended tenderly. "I am listening to you.

Tell me now."

"Yes," panted Olga. "I must. I must. You remember--that day--with the daisies--the day we saw--the hawk?"

Yes, well Muriel remembered it. The thought of it went through her like a stab.

"Yes, dear. What of it?" she heard herself say.

"Well, you know--I've thought since--that the daisies meant Nick, not--not--I can't remember his name, Muriel."

"Do you mean Captain Grange, dear?"

"Yes, yes, of course. He was there too, wasn't he? I'm sure now--quite sure--they didn't mean him."

"Very likely not, dear."

"And Muriel--do you know--Nick was just miserable--after you went. I sort of felt he was. And late--late that night I woke up, and I crept down to him--in the library. And he had his head down on the table--as if--as if--he was crying. Oh, Muriel!"

A sharp sob interrupted the piteous whisper. Muriel folded her arms about the child, pillowing the tired head on her breast. All the fair hair had been cut off earlier in the day. Its absence gave Olga a very babyish appearance.

Brokenly, with many gasping pauses, the pathetic little story came to an end. "I went to him--and I asked him what it was. And he--he looked up with that funny face he makes--you know--and he just said, 'Oh, it's all right. I've been feeding on dust and ashes all day long, that's all. And it's dry fare for a thirsty man!' He thought--I wouldn't know what he meant. But I did, Muriel. And I always wanted to tell you. But--somehow--you wouldn't let me. He meant you. He was hurt--so hurt--because you weren't kind to him. Oh, Muriel, won't you--won't you--try to be kind to him now? Please, dear, please!"

Muriel's eyes sought Nick, and instantly a thrill of surprise and relief shot through her. He had not heard that request of Olga's. She doubted if he had heard anything. He was sunk in a chair well in the background with his head on his hand, and looking at him she saw his shoulders shake with a soundless sob.