'When does he mean to come, I'd like to know?'
'It's uncertain.'
Emma passed into the sick-room. Her sister followed her with eyes of
ill-content, then returned to the kitchen.
Jane lay against pillows. Red light from the fire played over her
face, which was wasted beyond recognition. She looked a handmaiden
of Death.
The atmosphere of the room was warm and sickly. A small green-shaded
lamp stood by the looking-glass in front of the window; it cast a
disk of light below, and on the ceiling concentric rings of light
and shade, which flickered ceaselessly, and were at times all but
obliterated in a gleam from the fireplace. A kettle sang on the
trivet.
The sick girl's hands lay on the counterpane; one of them moved as
Emma came to the bedside, and rested when the warmer fingers clasped
it. There was eager inquiry in the sunken eyes; her hand tried to
raise itself, but in vain.
'What did Alice say?' she asked, in quick feeble tones. 'Is he
coming?'
'Not for Christmas, I'm afraid, dear. He's still very busy.'
'But he sent you a message?'
'Yes. He would have come if he could.'
'Did you tell Alice I wanted to see her? Why didn't she come up? Why
did she stay such a short time?'
'She couldn't stay to-night, Jane. Are you easy still, love?'
'Oh, I did so want to see her.
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