Poor little Willie had been
the cause of the first coldness between him and Amy; her love for
him had given place to a mother's love for the child. Now it
would be as in the first days of their marriage; they would again
be all in all to each other.
'You oughtn't to have come, feeling so ill,' she said to him.
'You should have let me know, dear.'
He smiled and kissed her hand.
'And you kept the truth from me last night, in kindness.'
She checked herself, knowing that agitation must be harmful to
him. She had hoped to conceal the child's death, but the effort
was too much for her overstrung nerves. And indeed it was only
possible for her to remain an hour or two by this sick-bed, for
she was exhausted by her night of watching, and the sudden agony
with which it had concluded. Shortly after Amy's departure, a
professional nurse came to attend upon what the doctor had
privately characterised as a very grave case.
By the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The
sufferer had ceased to cough and to make restless movements, and
had become lethargic; later, he spoke deliriously, or rather
muttered, for his words were seldom intelligible.
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