She was shaking all over as one with an ague, and her words were hardly articulate.  He waited a little for her trembling to pass, but it only increased till her whole body seemed to twitch uncontrollably.  At last with the utmost quietness he stooped and deliberately raised her.

“Chris, my dear little girl, you mustn’t let yourself go like this.  I want you to take this stuff to steady you.  Afterwards you will have a sleep and be better.”

She did not absolutely resist him, but he felt her nervous contraction at his touch.  The face she turned to his was ghastly in its pallor.

“I—­I don’t think I can, Trevor,” she said, speaking very rapidly.  “My throat won’t swallow.  It would only choke me.  Please—­please, if you don’t mind—­go away.  I shall be all right if—­if you will only go.”

“I can’t leave you like this,” he said.

“Yes, yes, you can,” she answered feverishly.  “Oh, what does it matter?  Trevor, I must be alone.  I must!  I must!  Please go!”

Her agitation was growing with every second, and he saw that he must yield.  He laid her back again without a word, smoothed the cushions, touched her hair, and softly departed.

She listened tensely for the closing of the door, relaxing instantly the moment she heard it.  A great darkness descended upon her soul.  She lay motionless, face downwards, too stunned for thought.

A long time passed.  It was growing late.  Over the quiet garden the summer dusk was falling.  The swallows were swooping through it in their multitudes—­the swallows that Cinders loved to chase.  To-night no cheery, impudent bark pursued their flight.  To-night all was still.

Did they miss him? she began to wonder dully.  Did they ask each other where he had gone?  And then, half-consciously, she began to listen for him, the scamper of the light feet, the gay jingle of his collar, till in a moment she almost fancied that she heard him scratching at the door.

She was half off the sofa before realization stabbed her, and she sank back numbly into her desolation.

Again a long time passed—­an interval not to be measured by hours or minutes.  The swallows ceased to circle and went to roost.  It began to be dark.  And still Chris lay alone, a huddled, motionless figure, prostrate, crushed, inanimate.  Her hands and feet were like ice, but she did not know it.  She was past caring for such trifles.  All her abounding vitality seemed to be arrested, as if her very blood had ceased to circulate.

It was growing late when the door opened at last.  A figure stood a moment upon the threshold, then entered, moving with a quick, light tread that might have been the tread of a woman.  In the darkness it reached her, bent over her.

“Ah, pauvre petite!” said a soft voice, a voice so full of compassion that it thrilled straight to her silent heart and made it beat again.  “All alone with your grief!  You permit me to intrude myself, no?”