Brokenly, with many gasping pauses, the pathetic little story came to an end.  “I went to him—­and I asked him what it was.  And he—­he looked up with that funny face he makes—­you know—­and he just said, ’Oh, it’s all right.  I’ve been feeding on dust and ashes all day long, that’s all.  And it’s dry fare for a thirsty man!’ He thought—­I wouldn’t know what he meant.  But I did, Muriel.  And I always wanted to tell you.  But—­somehow—­you wouldn’t let me.  He meant you.  He was hurt—­so hurt—­because you weren’t kind to him.  Oh, Muriel, won’t you—­won’t you—­try to be kind to him now?  Please, dear, please!”

Muriel’s eyes sought Nick, and instantly a thrill of surprise and relief shot through her.  He had not heard that request of Olga’s.  She doubted if he had heard anything.  He was sunk in a chair well in the background with his head on his hand, and looking at him she saw his shoulders shake with a soundless sob.

She looked away again with a sense of trespass.  This—­this was the man who had fought and cursed and slain under her eyes—­the man from whose violence she had shrunk appalled, whose strength had made her shudder many a time.  She had never imagined that he could grieve thus—­even for his little pal Olga.

Tenderly she turned back to the child.  That single glimpse of the man in pain had made it suddenly easy to grant her earnest prayer.

“I won’t be unkind to him again, darling,” she promised softly.

“Never any more?” insisted Olga.

“Never any more, my darling.”

Olga made a little nestling movement against her.  It was all she wanted, and now that the effort of asking was over she was very tired.

The nurse drew softly back into the shadow, and a deep silence fell in the room.  Through it in a long, monotonous roar there came the sound of the sea breaking, eternally breaking, along the beach.

No one moved.  Olga’s breathing was growing slower, so much slower that there were times when Muriel, listening intently, fancied that it had wholly ceased.  She held the little slim body close in her arms, jealously close, as though she were defying Death itself.  And ever through the stillness she could hear her own heart beating like the hoofs of a galloping horse.

Slowly the night began to pass.  The outline of the window-frame became visible against a faint grey glimmer.  The window was open, and a breath of the coming dawn wandered in with the fragrance of drenched roses.  A soft rain was falling.  The patter of it could be heard upon the leaves.

Again Muriel listened for the failing breath, listened closely, tensely, her face bent low to the fair head that lay so still upon her breast.

But she heard nothing—­nothing but her own heart quickening, quickening, from fear to suspense, from suspense to the anguish of conviction.

She lifted her face at last, and in the same instant there arose a sudden flood of song from the sleeping garden, as the first lark soared to meet the dawn.