Joanna hardly listened to Linnet’s words. She heard in a heavy stupor of amazement his declaration that, though he had sent for her, he had not been the least anxious till this morning. But in her pocket she had his telegram of the day before giving her no hope. And for all his voluble reassurances he had not yet contradicted that message.

He waited in the tiny, littered sitting-room while his sister went through to her mother’s bedroom beyond.

There was a dreadful, cottage closeness in the air that puffed out to meet her as she opened the door. And mingling with it came an abhorrent breath, which the girl recognized though it had never before blown against her face.

VI

On the bed, under a tumbled patchwork quilt lay Juley. Without changing her uneasy attitude she turned her face as her daughter came in.

“My own dear child!” she said, with a curious, difficult utterance. But her eyes were lit up.

Joanna put her arms round her mother, kneeling by the bed, and the tears rained down her cheeks.

“I came as quick as I could, my darling,” she said, laying her head on Juley’s breast. “And now I’ll never leave you again.”

Juley stroked her child’s head in silence.

“How are you, dear? Are you better? Is the pain gone? Can I get you anything?”

“Quite gone. I’m better. No, nothing to drink … I’ll soon be well … but I’m uncomfortable, and how untidy the room is.”

“That’s what I’m here for – to make you comfortable. This isn’t like you, Mother,” Joanna chided, drawing herself gently away and looking about the dark, untidy little room. “What a mess! Linnet is a bad nurse. Shall I tidy up a bit before the doctor comes, or is there anything I can get for you first?” She tried to speak with composure.

“No, dear. Tidy … I’d like th’ room tidied … but leave the bed … no pain now … but must keep still … don’t touch …”

Joanna who was trying to open the deep-set, impossible window, looked round aghast. The sick woman beginning the sentence distinctly enough, was now mumbling like a drunken person, and at the end of the mumble there was a little, dreadful gulp. Running to the bedside the girl saw that a change had come over the face on the pillow.

“Linnet!” she called out loudly. “Fetch the doctor! And run! Run!”

As if he had been waiting for that word, Linnet sped from the cottage.

And now Juley’s face had changed still more. She raised her strong, beautiful voice in what seemed urgent speech, but Joanna, to her despair, could not distinguish a word, not even a syllable in the sounds that came. She would have given her life to read the meaning in the eyes that gazed with such intentness of supplication into hers. But she could not.

She tried to find some comfort in the strength of her mother’s voice. Dying people surely spoke feebly?