Olga was lying propped on pillows, and breathing quickly.  The nurse was bending over her with a glass, but Olga’s face was turned away.  She was watching the door.

As Muriel came to her, the light eyes brightened to quick intelligence, and the parted lips tried to speak.  But no sound came forth, and a frown of pain succeeded the effort.

Muriel stooped swiftly and grasped the slender hand that lay clenched upon the sheet.

“There, darling!  Don’t try to talk.  It hurts you so.  We are both here, Nick and I, and we understand all about it.”

It was the first time she had ever voluntarily coupled herself with him.  It came to her instinctively to do it in that moment.

But Olga had something to say, something apparently that must be said.  With infinite difficulty she forced a husky whisper.  Muriel stooped lower to catch it, so low that her face was almost touching the face upon the pillow.

“Muriel,” came haltingly from the parched lips, “there’s something—­I want—­to say to you—­about Nick.”

Muriel felt the blood surging at her temples as the faint words reached her.  She would have given anything to know that he was out of earshot.

“Won’t you say it in the morning, darling?” she said, almost with pleading in her voice.  “It’s so late now.”

It was not late.  It was very, very early—­the solemn hour when countless weary ones fall into their long sleep.  And the moment she had spoken, her heart smote her.  Was she for her own peace of mind trying to silence the child’s last words on earth?

“No, never mind, dear,” she amended tenderly.  “I am listening to you.  Tell me now.”

“Yes,” panted Olga.  “I must.  I must.  You remember—­that day—­with the daisies—­the day we saw—­the hawk?”

Yes, well Muriel remembered it.  The thought of it went through her like a stab.

“Yes, dear.  What of it?” she heard herself say.

“Well, you know—­I’ve thought since—­that the daisies meant Nick, not—­not—­I can’t remember his name, Muriel.”

“Do you mean Captain Grange, dear?”

“Yes, yes, of course.  He was there too, wasn’t he?  I’m sure now—­quite sure—­they didn’t mean him.”

“Very likely not, dear.”

“And Muriel—­do you know—­Nick was just miserable—­after you went.  I sort of felt he was.  And late—­late that night I woke up, and I crept down to him—­in the library.  And he had his head down on the table—­as if—­as if—­he was crying.  Oh, Muriel!”

A sharp sob interrupted the piteous whisper.  Muriel folded her arms about the child, pillowing the tired head on her breast.  All the fair hair had been cut off earlier in the day.  Its absence gave Olga a very babyish appearance.