"What is the time, Anna?"
"It is past eleven, uncle. He will not come now. You must wait till morning. Besides, there is no hurry. Won't you try and go to sleep?"
"He said he would come, and he will be here. He always keeps his word. Put the clock where I can see it, dear, and go to bed. If I want anything, I will ring."
"I am not tired enough—to go to bed," said Anna, whose eyes were heavy with watching. "Let me read you to sleep. If Dean Sacheverell comes, I can wake you."
Legge had been ill for nearly a fortnight. They said he had not rested sufficiently after his attack of bronchitis; he had tried his strength too soon: they called his condition a relapse. He knew it was the end, because he felt so happy. "To see you lying in bed and not fretting and grizzling over it, is a perfeck treat!" said Mrs. Grimmage.
"I have no book to finish this time," he said, smiling; "that is all done."
When he told them—for Anna, too, had come to nurse him—that he wished to see a friend, it was regarded as a hopeful sign. There was a touch of the usual and human in the desire which cheered the soul of Sarah Grimmage. "He only wants livening up, bless you!" she said to the doctor.