There was a rustling of skirts in the passage and the sound of the voices grew clearer.
"Good day, ma'am, and thank ye very kindly, I'm sure," Mrs. Parkin was saying.
No reply came, though he was straining every nerve to catch it . . . At last, subdued, but altogether distinct, her voice:
"You're sure there's nothing else I can send?"
The door of his room was ajar. He dug his nails into the panel-edge, and tried to swing it open. But he could scarcely move it, and in a moment she would be gone.
Suddenly he heard his own voice—loud and queer it sounded:
"Ethel—Ethel."
Hurried steps mounted the stairs, and Mrs. Parkin's white cap and spectacled face appeared.
"What be t'matter, Mr. Burkett?" she asked breathlessly.
"Stop her—tell her."
"Dearie, dearie me, he's off wanderin' agin."
"No, no; I'm all right—tell—ask Mrs. Fulton if she would come up to see me?"
"There, there, Mr. Burkett, don't ye excite yeself. Ye're not fit to see any one, ye know that. Lie ye doon agin, or ye'll be catchin' yer death o' cauld."
"Ask her to come, please—just for a minute."
"For Heaven's sake lie doon. Ye'll be workin' yeself into a fever next. There, there, I'll ask her for ye, though I've na notion what t'doctor 'ud say."
She drew down the blind and retired, closing the door quietly behind her.
The next thing he saw was Ethel standing by his bedside.
He lay watching her without speaking. She wore a red dresstrimmed
