Mechanically, Honora lifted the cup and sipped it.  When Kate broke pieces of the toast and set them before her, she ate them.

“You are telling me nothing about the babies,” Kate reproached her finally.  “Mayn’t we have them in for a moment?”

“I don’t think they ought to come here,” said Honora faintly.  “It doesn’t seem as if they ought to be brought to such a place as this.”

But Kate commanded their presence, and, having softly fondled them, dropped them on Honora’s bed and let them crawl about there.  They swarmed up to their mother and hung upon her, patting her cheeks, and investigating the use of eyelids and of ropes of hair.  But when they could not provoke her to play, they began to whimper.

“Honora,” said Kate sharply, “you must laugh at them at once!  They mustn’t go away without a kiss.”

So Honora dragged herself from those green waters beyond the fatal Banks, half across the continent to the little children at her side, and held them for a moment—­the two of them at once—­in her embrace.

“But I’m so tired, Kate,” she said wearily.

“Rest, then,” said Kate.  “Rest.  But it wouldn’t have been right to rest without saying good-night to the kiddies, would it?  A mother has to think of that, hasn’t she?  They need you so dreadfully, you see.”

She slipped the extra pillows from beneath the heavy head, and stood a moment by the bedside in silence as if she would impress the fact of her protection upon that stricken heart and brain.

“It is safe, here, Honora,” she said softly.  “Love and care are all about you.  No harm shall come near you.  Do you believe that?”

Honora looked at her from beneath heavy lids, then slowly let her eyes close.  Kate walked to the window and waited.  At first Honora’s body was convulsed with nervous spasms, but little by little they ceased.  Honora slept.  Kate threw wide the windows, extinguished the light, and crept from the room, not ill-satisfied with her first conflict with the dread enemy.

* * * * *

Karl was waiting for her in the corridor when she came from Honora’s room, and he caught both of her hands in his.

“You’re cold with horror!” he said.  “What a thing that is to see!”

“But it isn’t going to last,” protested Kate with a quivering accent.  “We can’t have it last.”

“Come into the light,” he urged.  “Supper is waiting.”

He led her down the stairs and into the simple dining-room.  The table was laid for two before a leaping blaze.  There was no other light save that of two great candles in sticks of wrought bronze.  The room was bare but beautiful—­so seemly were its proportions, so fitted to its use its quiet furnishings.