"Don't look till to-morrow mornin'," she said, anxiously, as she lay
back trembling and exhausted.
The breath of the mill! The fires of want and crime had finished their
work on her life,--so! She caught the meaning of his face quickly.
"It's nothin'," she said, eagerly. "I'll be strong by New-Year's; it's
only a day or two rest I need. I've no tho't o' givin' up."
And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make the
tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to die,--why
should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for the little
cripple,--why need he show her the cold without? He saw her at last go
near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her breathless cry,
and a sob. A moment after the old man came into the room, carrying her,
and, laying her down on the settee, chafed her hands and misshapen head.
"What ails her?" he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes. "We've
killed her among us."
She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his coarse
gray hair into her hand.
"Yoh wur long comin'," she said, weakly. "I hunted fur yoh every
day,--every day."
The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face
with a wild fear.
"What ails her?" he cried. "Ther' 's somethin' gone wi' my girl. Was it
my fault? Lo, was it my fault?"
"Be quiet!" said Holmes, sternly.
"Is it _that_?" he gasped, shrilly.
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