Part 18 (1/2)

”Stop, there is father,” she exclaimed suddenly. ”Let me go to him. I--I can bear him to tell me if there is anything wrong.”

In an instant she reached the Rector's side. Her arms were round his neck, her head on his shoulder, and she was sobbing her heart out on his breast.

”My dearest Hilda, my darling!” exclaimed her father. ”What is the meaning of all this? Why are you so dreadfully unhappy, my child?”

”Tell me, father, I can bear it from you. Is she--is she dead?”

”Is who dead?”

”Ju--Judy.”

”No; what has put that into your head? But your little sister is very ill, Hilda. I am not so much alarmed about her as your Aunt Marjorie is, but I confess her state puzzles me. I saw Dr. Harvey to-day, and I don't think he is satisfied either. It seems that for some reason the child was over-excited last night--there was difficulty in getting her off to sleep, and she cried in a very distressing and painful way. I was obliged to sit with her myself. I held her hand, poor little darling, and had a prayer with her, and--toward morning she dropped off into a sleep.”

”And,” continued Hilda, ”she was better when she awoke, wasn't she? Do say she was, father. You showed her Jasper's telegram the very instant she awoke, and of course she got much better immediately.”

”My dear Hilda, the strange thing about Judy has yet to be told; she has not awakened--she is still asleep, and this prolonged and unnatural sleep disturbs Dr. Harvey a good deal.”

”I had better go to her at once, father. I think the doctor _must_ be mistaken in thinking sleep bad. When Judy sees me sitting by her bedside she will soon cheer up and get like her old self. I'll run to her now, father: I don't feel half so much alarmed since you tell me that she is only asleep.”

The Rector gave vent to a troubled sigh; Hilda put wings to her feet, and with the lightness and grace of a bird sped toward the house.

”Hilda, Hilda!” called her husband. He had taken a short cut across some fields, and was now entering the Rectory domain. He thought it would be quite the correct thing for his wife to wait for him. Surely she would like to enter her family circle with him by her side. ”Hilda, stop!” he cried, and he hurried his own footsteps.

But if Hilda heard she did not heed. She rushed on, and soon disappeared from view inside the deep portico of the old house.

Two or three moments later she was sitting without her hat and jacket, and with a pair of noiseless house-slippers on her feet, by Judy's bedside.

All the preparations which had been made with such care and pains by Babs the night before were still making the nursery look pretty. The little china animals sat in many funny groups on the mantelpiece. The white and blue violets lay in a large bowl on a table by Judy's side.

One of the little sleeper's hands was thrown outside the counterpane.

Hilda touched it, and found that it burned with a queer, uncomfortable dry heat.

”But how quietly she is sleeping,” said Mrs. Quentyns, looking up with tears in her eyes at Aunt Marjorie; ”why are you so solemn and sad?--surely this sleep must be good for her.”

”My dear, Dr. Harvey calls Judy's state more stupor than sleep. He says the most extraordinary things about the child ... that she has been over-excited and subjected to a severe mental strain, and he fears mischief to the brain. But surely he must be wrong, for nothing _could_ exceed the quiet of our life at the Rectory since the money has gone and you have left us, and no one could have been less excited in her ways than Judy has been since your marriage. I can't make out what Dr. Harvey means.”

”I think I partly understand,” said Hilda; her voice had a choking sound. ”Don't talk so loud, Aunt Marjorie,” she said impatiently; ”you will wake her--you will disturb her.”

”But that is what we wish,” interrupted the old lady. ”The doctor says we must do everything in our power to rouse her. Ah, and here he comes; he will speak for himself.”

”I am glad to see you, Mrs. Quentyns,” said Dr. Harvey. ”Your not coming last night when the child expected you was a grave mistake, but better late than never.”

He stopped speaking then, and bent over the little sleeper.

”Draw up the blind,” he said to Aunt Marjorie, ”let us have all the light we can. Now don't be frightened, Mrs. Quentyns--I am not going to hurt the child, but I must examine her eyes.”

Hilda felt as if she could scarcely restrain a stifled scream as the doctor lifted first one lid and then the other, and looked into the dark depths of the sweet eyes.

”The child has got a shock,” he said then. ”I feared it when I called early this morning. I don't say for a moment that she will not get better, but her state is very precarious. I should like you to nurse her altogether, Mrs. Quentyns; much depends on her seeing you by her side when she wakes.”