arm. She had come after me. I turned to her and said:
'I tell you that I will come back. Now, do not trouble me. You see that I don't want to be troubled.'
'Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do? You will leave me! And I shall never see you again! You will never be the same to me again.—I hate her!'
'She is dying,' I said, smiling again, 'you won't have to hate her long.'
'You love her!'
'I do not.'
'You do, you know you do!' (She caught my hand in hers up to her lips.) 'I can't let you go?' she sobbed.
I comforted her in a quiet way, stroking her hair back:
'Come,' I said, 'Come, come!' And went on, till all at once it occurred to me that I ought to have looked out the time the night-mail went, and paused. The clock struck six.
I turned and began rummaging in the cup-board till I had found the time-table. I opened and began to study it.
A pause.
'I am … very sorry,' said her soft voice by me. 'I didn't mean to vex you. Will you for-give me?'
'I have nothing to forgive you for.'
'And may I pack your things?'
'You are kind.'
'Don't say that,' she pleaded, don't say that! Will you give me a kiss, and be friends again?'
I turned round and, with my arm about her back, gave her a kiss on the cheek. I was surprised at her child's woebegone face. Then, leaving her, I went to the window and at last found out the time of the night-mail. I took to walking up and down the room in front of the fire. I saw the envelope of the letter with the newspapers on the floor at the foot of the easy-chair. I picked it up and considered it. A horrible thought came to me: She might be dead!
I looked at the postmarks. The letter had taken four days to get to me. I cursed Mrs. Herbert to hell. Where was the letter?
